A Dutiful Daughter
by CrystalFNfire
Summary: This is a rewrite of my story, A Rohirrim Queen. This tells of Lothiriel and Eomer's arranged marriage, written in Lothiriel's point of view. She has always been a dutiful daughter, but can she say nothing in the face of a lifetime of unhappiness?
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

Lothíriel woke to a soft knocking at her chamber door. The golden morning sunlight of the first day of autumn lined her sheets from the window above her bed, and she stretched lazily. It had been a year and a half since Frodo Baggins destroyed the Ring that caused the downfall of Sauron, and finally, things were starting to get back to normal.

She had just turned twenty-two. She was a princess in the wealthiest country of Middle-Earth, and finally, her brothers and father were home to stay for good, so she no longer had to take over the rule of Dol Amroth. She had been a dutiful daughter, but for the time being, she had nothing to do but sit, make lace, and occasionally look nice for a suitor that had no chance of marrying her. She was young, pretty, and a wealthy princess with a huge dowry to boot. Life was good.

The door to her room opened, and one of her ladies-in-waiting, Minuialîn, poked her head around the corner. "Prince Imrahil, wishes to see you in his study, my lady." She paused, taking in the scene. Lothíriel groaned inwardly. She had wanted to sleep in for one day, and was, of course, still in her nightdress, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Now Minuialîn must think her lazy. "He says that it is urgent."

"With Father everything is urgent: he's a general," Lothíriel muttered under her breath, but nodded to her lady-in-waiting, who came in to help her get dressed. She got out of bed, feeling very well rested, and reached into her closet for her favorite, silver-gray gown.

She slipped out of her nightgown and into her slip unhurriedly, but Minuialîn seemed to be too excited for her slow ways. When she dropped her slippers the third time, Lothíriel became irritated. "For Eru's sake, Minuialîn, what has gotten into you?" she reprimanded. "You are more jumpy than a Nazgûl in a waterfall."

The girl blushed at her clumsiness and bowed profusely. "I am sorry, my lady, but I am so happy for you!" She seemed to enjoy the confused expression on Lothíriel's face. "Oh, do you not know, my lady? You are to be married to the King of Rohan!"


	2. Chapter 1

Many thanks to Deandra for revising and re-revising this chapter for me.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Lothíriel: The Dutiful Daughter**

* * *

_September 22, 3020, The Third Age_

_Dol Amroth, Gondor _

_The Home of Prince Imrahil_

* * *

Lothíriel's heart caught in her throat. "What?" she cried.

Minuialîn beamed. "Is it not wonderful?" she asked, clutching Lothíriel's slippers to her chest. "Oh, you are lucky, my lady! The King of Rohan is said to be the most handsome bachelor in all the lands of men! And that is ignoring the crown he has. Why, with all those horses, he must be rich, too. Just think, my lady, you shall be his wife!"

She continued to babble, but Lothíriel had stopped listening. The blood rushing through her ears was making her deaf to anything her lady-in-waiting was saying, and she became lost in her own thoughts. The light from her window, golden from the bright autumn sun, grew dim around her. _Married?_ her mind cried. _To King Éomer of Rohan? How could her father have done such a thing behind her back? _

She had met the King of Rohan before; she had had to get to know all the families of noble blood. Lothíriel's mind whirled back to that time, more than two years ago, when her family had traveled to Edoras for an audience with the former king of Rohan, Théoden. What he had gotten, however, was a mouthful of Grima Wormtongue, the king's vile advisor. Her father had been more interested in getting her in a match with Théodred or Boromir then. But Théodred and Boromir were both dead now. She shuddered at the thought, remembering how pleasant Théodred had been to her and all the times she had insisted that Boromir play with her when she had visited the White City.

In Edoras, she had been sitting next to the Crown Prince of Rohan, across the table from Éomer, only Third Marshal of the Mark at the time. She and the marshal had exchanged a few polite words during the meal, not more, for his cousin was the one who was supposed to be entertaining her. She had found it a bit awkward, wondering how her father could possibly think she would be happy, married to the son of the king, when Théodred was in his fortieth winter and she was only nineteen. It was one of the most uncomfortable dinners she had to sit through: Théodred was politely pleasant and talkative, but had treated her like a child. It seemed that he had something else on his mind during the entire dinner, though that was better than how his cousins had treated her; both Éowyn and Éomer had acted as if she did not exist. Later, she had shared a dance with Éomer after his partner had caught the eye of the prince, and Théodred had suggested they trade.

Éomer had been a good dancer, with a sure step and a steady hand, so even though Lothíriel had not known most of the Rohirric dances, she rarely missed a step. It was also true that he was handsome. His dark eyes and blonde hair were a strange combination, but it only accentuated his full lips, his straight nose, and his strong brow. But his conversation had been sparse, asking only acceptable questions about the weather, how she liked Edoras, and what she thought of the other guests. He was too polite and stiff, and there had been no attraction in their first meeting. She could not marry a man like him.

At the thought, Lothíriel knew she had to speak to her father. She hastily grabbed her slippers from her lady-in-waiting and squeezed her feet into them before dashing to her father's study.

-

_Three hours later…_

"_Lothíriel_," Prince Imrahil emphasized, "you must say yes to the King's suit." Her father was standing with legs apart, arms crossed, and face forward behind the desk in his study. Lothíriel recognized the stance as one of power, used mostly when dealing with a rebellious soldier in the field. Her three brothers were already in her father's study, arguing about how much grain to send to Rohan when she had barged in. Tempers were high before she arrived, and she had done nothing to cool them.

Despite her father's tone of voice, she was not ready to give up her argument on the subject, but Amrothos, her youngest brother, had also read his father's body language and put a hand on her shoulder, silently telling her to let the comment slide. She bit her lip hard, knowing that Amrothos was right, and she should not be getting into a verbal fight with the Prince of Dol Amroth. She drew in a tight breath and forced the stinging words down.

"For my part," Elphir, her oldest brother, intoned, "I agree with Lothíriel completely. A daughter of Gondor, especially a daughter of a prince, can find better fish in the sea." He stood to the left of the small party, leaning back against one of their father's beautiful mahogany bookshelves, his expression nonchalant.

Lothíriel turned and glared at her brother, biting her lip again. That was not at all what she had meant: she did not wish to insult the king. "I am not saying that I am too good for the man," she said. "And I am flattered that King Éomer would offer me such a suit. I am just saying that six months is much too short a time before a wedding. We— "

She clamped her mouth shut again as her father looked angrily at her. His gaze was actually directed at both her and her brother, but he had a way of looking at people that isolated them. She swallowed and directed her eyes to the floor, pretending to study the intricate weaving in the crimson carpeting. "Remember of whom you are speaking. I call this man brother." His icy tone brought silence to the entire assembly.

Amrothos cleared his throat nervously. "Well, Father, it is only natural that a woman would want to get to know a man before she marries him. Perhaps we can—"

Imrahil rounded on his son. "Need I remind you that this suit is only tentative? He can withdraw any time if we do not take this opportunity. This is a chance for Rohan and Gondor to be forever bonded in friendship."

Lothíriel wanted to say that she doubted that Rohan and Gondor would go to war any time soon, as both countries had been ravaged by the War of the Ring. Also, Imrahil's own statement before had very well summed up the friendly relationship between the two countries. Faramir's marriage to the Lady Éowyn ultimately ensured a lasting alliance between Éomer and Elessar, Faramir being the Prince of Ithilien, and Éowyn the sister of the king. However, she knew it was wise to keep her mouth shut lest she wanted to begin the shouting competitions again.

"Éomer is not going to retract his suit any time soon," Erchirion said. Her middle brother rolled his eyes, adding, "Did you see the way he was looking at Lothíriel the last time we visited Edoras?" To lighten the atmosphere, he sat down in a chair opposite his father and winked at his sister.

Lothíriel wanted to rip out her hair and scream. Instead, she quietly balled her hands into fists at her sides, where her full gown hid them from view. However, Prince Imrahil was not fooled by her seeming calmness. He read her annoyance in the hard line her jaw took as soon as Erchirion's words were out. "_Father_," Lothíriel stressed the word in the same way he had stressed her name, "it is unlikely that Éomer will withdraw the proposal so soon. He would not want to seem rude—" she threw a meaningful glance over at Erchirion "—so we have some time to make decisions about this matter."

Prince Imrahil pursed his lips, and Lothíriel saw a vein throbbing in his temple. His four children were undoubtedly giving him a headache. Elphir, the one most opposed to the match other than Lothíriel herself, thankfully, did not say anything else.

The leader of Dol Amroth closed his eyes, and Lothíriel could almost see him count to three in his head before opening his eyes and facing her. "Do you like the King of Horse Lords?" he finally asked.

"I have not had enough experience with him to decide either way," Lothíriel answered diplomatically. It was a lie. She had decided the night after they had met that he was one of those men who knew nothing beyond warfare and leadership. He would probably spend their wedding night speaking to her of battle strategies if she agreed to the marriage. But, had she said an outright "no," both her father and the king would be hurt and angry.

Prince Imrahil sighed deeply and sat down heavily in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. The carvings on it matched the columns around the room, where important business was usually carried out. At the same time, this was also the only room he could retreat to when he wanted nothing to bother him. Now, he dearly wished to be alone, but he knew he would not have peace of mind until he had come to an agreement with his daughter.

"Oh, Father, stop worrying. Yes, the messenger was late, but Éomer would never draw back unless you did," Amrothos said in his usual playful manner. Then, suddenly, he clamped his hand so hard across his mouth that a muffled "Ow!" could be heard.

Lothíriel whirled on her brother. "What?" she cried. "What are you saying?" The silence in the room was enough to answer her.

"You offered me!" she cried accusingly, turning again to face her father, her face filled with disgust and horror. She did not have to see the threatening look that he threw Amrothos to know that she was not supposed to know about this. "You arranged this marriage!" She threw up her hands in disgust. "He did not even propose! You _offered _me!"

"Lothíriel, be reasonable," her father immediately said, his voice soothing and gentle. "You know that I am only trying to do what is best for you, and this marriage to the King of Rohan happens to be it." Elphir snorted.

Lothíriel, however, was beyond reason at this point. "All of you knew this!" she screamed, looking at the others in the room and grinding her teeth together. Her voice echoing in the silence told her that she was going too far. She sighed and closed her eyes. However, she could not hold back the remark that was rising in her throat. "And when were you going to tell me? After we sent the rest of the war reparations to Rohan, or the morning after I arise from the marriage bed?"

"Lothíriel, you are being unfair—" Amrothos started reasonably, but was interrupted by a very angry Elphir.

"Oh, for the Valar's sake! Just tell Éomer to keep his barbaric suit—"

His sentence was not halfway out when Erchirion, ever the diplomat, rose out of his chair to cut him off before he became too vulgar. "Father did not know you would –"

"By Eru!" Prince Imrahil's oath silenced all the other protests. He looked at his daughter, his eyes serious. "There can be no discussion, Lothíriel," her father finally said. "King Elessar has already sanctioned the marriage, and is looking forward to the wedding day. He is happy to see the union of our lands, especially through an alliance between the royal houses of Dol Amroth and Edoras."

Lothíriel's vehemence, however, could not be stopped. "And I suppose I am the one that is to pay the price for this union?" She tasted blood and realized that she had fallen back into the bad habit of biting her lip when she was agitated or annoyed.

Prince Imrahil stood at his full height, his anger terrible to see. His face had flushed red from the effort to hold back his frustration. "You are to be grateful for what Rohan has done for this country!"

She tilted her chin up defiantly. "I _am_ grateful, Father," she said. The anger in her chest was still building. "I just do not wish to be part of the treasure chest that we send back to show our thanks." She knew that she should not be pushing this matter any further, but something told her that she had to speak now or forever hold her peace.

"We will go to Edoras in six months time," her father said, his voice dangerously even. "And once we reach there, you will marry Éomer and be his wife."

Lothíriel swallowed. It was clear that there would be no more discussion on the matter.

-

_Later that evening…_

Why Éomer had proposed through a letter, Lothíriel did not know. It was almost cowardly, she thought, certainly unlike the King of Rohan, whom she pictured as a brave, valiant soldier. At least, that was what her brothers had told her. They were awed by his courage and his abilities with a sword and spear, and had said that he was fiercely loyal to all those that he called his friends. It could, Lothíriel thought bitterly, have something to do with how her father had offered her, like a horse on display.

His proposal had been short. It was written on a single piece of parchment, folded behind the much larger letter on business matters that he had sent her father. It was as if it was just another transaction: Rohan's goodwill for her hand in marriage. Lothíriel was offended.

But, because he had asked in such a blunt, curt manner, she was tempted to answer in the same way. She toyed with the idea of sending a rejection with her own messengers, but she knew that that was out of the question. Her father would be infuriated, and the King of Rohan would probably never trust the word of Dol Amroth again. Realistically, she knew that she should behave as the Gondorian princess that she was and write out a full letter of acceptance and thanks. However, now came the question as to what to write.

She had never thought she would be in this situation, writing an acceptance for her marriage to a man she barely even knew. Of course she had thought about the idea of marriage; it was accepted that, as a daughter of kings, she was to be married to a man of fitting station. But, her father had indicated that he would allow her to marry someone of her own choosing, as long as he deemed him acceptable. So now, what was this? Offering her to the King of Rohan indeed!

Truthfully, she had often dreamed of not marrying. She had had enough of court life through her long years by her father's side, and she had realized the difficulty of ruling behind the scenes as a woman. Once, a few years ago, she had been exposed to the Houses of Healing at Minas Tirith. It had been the summer of her twentieth birthday, and she had been visiting her cousins in the White City. However, Boromir had already set out for Rivendell, and Faramir had taken his place as the Captain of the Guard at Osgiliath. Even her brothers, who had gone with her, were scarce to be found, as they would often accompany Faramir to defend the river against Mordor.

One day, while walking the streets of the city, she had come across a woman who worked in the Houses of Healing. Seeing that she was carrying a burden much too heavy for her, Lothiriel decided to help her. This was how she had entered the House. That day of exposure was enough to scare her away for a lifetime. Raised as a princess, she had never seen so much blood and pain in all her life, but, with the frequent Orc attacks, many soldiers were sent to the Houses daily. However, Lothiriel realized that there she finally came in contact with the people she was ruling, and she found comfort in being treated as an equal by the women who nursed these people back to health. She spent the rest of her summer there, sometimes working late into the night, and even acquired a few skills as a healer.

If she remained unmarried, she knew that she could later get her father to agree to her service at the Houses of Healing. However, marriage to King Éomer meant she would never be a healer, and she would have to endure a lifetime at court, with the other ladies sniggering at her black hair or poisoning her reputation behind her back as she had seen many do to others in her father's court. Even worse, she realized, Éomer was handsome, and with his crown, many women would not care that he already had a wife. She did not know what kind of man Éomer was, and she just may have to live a life of humiliation, watching first one woman and then another sneak into her husband's bed.

Thinking this, she angrily threw down her quill, still unable to think of what to write. First, she tried to be polite and seem grateful.

* * *

_My Lord Éomer, _

_I thank you for honoring me with this proposal of marriage. I have heard much from my brothers and father about your courageous actions in battle and magnanimity as king. However, I also know from the last time that I was at Edoras that you are both kind-hearted and possess a keen wit. How you made me laugh with that jest about Lady Freya's exceedingly beautiful skirt of purple and orange! _

* * *

Lothíriel slowed her quill and snickered to herself. It was she that had made the sarcastic comment, not Éomer, and he had very seriously agreed with her. But it did not matter now who had said what; she just wanted to fill in the space between the date and the bottom of the page.

* * *

_I am flattered that you should consider me for your wife, and I whole-heartedly and willingly accept your proposal. I look forward to many happy days with you at Edoras. _

* * *

She stopped again and re-read what she had written. Then, with a sound of revulsion, she balled the piece of parchment up and threw it aside. She actually _sounded_ like she wanted the marriage to go through!

Lothíriel picked up another piece of parchment and re-dipped her quill in ink. Her next letter was more candid. She tried to explain her inner misgivings and her thoughts about the marriage. She poured her heart out into the letter, which ran three full pages, telling Éomer about why she did not wish to marry, especially to a man that she did not know, and she apologized for it, but knew that she had to marry out of duty. She even included a bit about her dreams of becoming a healer.

She was satisfied with herself after she finished the letter, and set it out on her desk to dry. Then, with a yawn, she climbed into bed.

However, as she lay in the dark, she could not help but think of her letter and how Éomer would react to it. Would he think her too forward? Women were not supposed to speak their minds this way, especially to men they did not know. The more she thought, the more she tossed and turned, and finally, she threw back her covers and went back to her desk.

Upon rereading the letter, she realized nothing made sense. If Éomer even so much as looked at the message, he would think her an idiot, incapable of penning an intelligent letter. _That might not be such a bad idea, _she thought in passing. _If he thinks that you are an idiot, he might retract his suit. _But her father would be angry if Éomer ever mentioned anything about the letter. Even worse, what if Éomer passed on his thoughts about her to another suitor that she wished to marry later? In her anxiety, she tore the pages up, and then realized that she had nothing to show for her entire evening of work.

In the end, when her candle had burned down to nothing but a stub, she knew she could put it off for no longer. Her father had demanded the letter to be finished by morning for delivery. It was nearly dawn, and she had not had a wink of sleep. Tired and more than a bit spiteful, she hastily penned an answer that ran along the lines of,

* * *

_My Lord Éomer, _

_I thank you for proposing marriage, and I gladly accept. May Eru smile upon the day of our meeting. _

_With best regards, _

_Lothíriel of Dol Amroth _

* * *

She knew that her message sounded more like a thank-you card sent in response to an invitation, but now she was too tired to do anything else. She handed the letter to her maidservant to give to Imrahil, and then went to bed, her head pounding with the lack of sleep.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: **

**Road to Edoras

* * *

**

_March 26, 3021_

_The Eastfold, Rohan _

_On the Road to Edoras

* * *

_

Six months later, sitting on horseback, on the third leg of the journey to Edoras, she was thoroughly regretting her agreement to the marriage. Not only had she forgotten how far it was from Dol Amroth to Rohan, sixth months was a long enough time for her to get too comfortable in her own home.

Lothíriel would not have minded as much, had she known that she had something to look forward to, but any forms of communication she had tried to establish with the Rohirrim king had failed. The reply to her unforgivably short letter was an even shorter one, stating unconvincingly that he was delighted with the match. Knowing that she was in the wrong, Lothíriel realized also she knew almost nothing about Rohirrim culture, and had asked her father to hire a tutor to teach her about their land and language.

Taking this as a sign that his daughter was finally agreeing to the marriage, Imrahil was more than happy to find her a teacher. Unfortunately, she was not a great student of tongues, and after sixth months, could only engage in rudimentary conversations and possessed the vocabulary of a five-year-old.

After a few weeks, Lothíriel decided that she could not go the entire six months without writing to Éomer. She was, after all, going to marry the man, and though she did not know the Rohirrim traditions for pre-marital communication, she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable about their lack of familiarity. Therefore, she carefully penned a two-page letter, asking after the king and his family's welfare, and spoke a little about her own life.

The reply she received answered her questions briefly, and included little information about Éomer's own feelings. It was exactly half a page, and with the king's large handwriting, it came to be about seven sentences long.

Disappointed at this obvious lack of care for their future relationship, Lothíriel nonetheless tried to keep up their communication, sending at least a two-page letter every two weeks. The replies, however, were always the same.

Now, cursing Éomer, Dol Amroth, the road, her horse, her father, and especially her chattering brothers, Lothíriel was ready to stop the marriage there and then. Her back was sore, her legs were sore, and, most irritating of all, her head was sore from listening to her brothers' jabber and trying to figure out Éomer's apparent lack of interest in their future.

She had ceased, a long time ago, to notice the scenery, and, at the moment, could only concentrate on the pale mane of the mare she was riding and the words of her three brothers. Elphir, the most rigidly proper of the three, was still muttering to himself about how inappropriate it was for a daughter of Gondor to ride astride, wearing trousers underneath her dress, like a man. He had been most adamant, as the eldest, about her riding sidesaddle—something Lothíriel had never learned how to do. She was still alarmed at the very thought of sitting sideways on a beast, however mild-mannered. It seemed a much too precarious way to ride, and if the horse so much as jumped, she was sure she would end up tossed on the ground like a rag doll, then trampled on under those powerful hooves.

Luckily, Imrahil had seen nothing improper about allowing his daughter to ride astride, as he knew that all women in Rohan rode in such a fashion. He had let her learn to ride that way at an early age because she had seen her brothers doing so and refused to learn any other way.

Erchirion and Amrothos were behind her, still bickering about some useless subject that she could not help but overhear.

"Oh, will you two be silent?" she finally voiced irritably. "You are giving me a headache."

Amrothos immediately shifted his attention to her, forgetting that he already had Erchirion in a figurative choke hold in their argument. He rode up beside her and bowed sarcastically from his horse, a teasing smile on his face. "My, what seems to be eating at the young bride-to-be today? Can it be that she does not wish to be married?"

Erchirion noticed her eyes rolling heavenward, and joined in the fun. He pulled his horse alongside her so that there was one brother on either side of her. "Well, you know that it is much too late to go back on your word now. In three days, at this time, you may be saying your wedding vows. And you best not show this side of yourself to your new husband."

Amrothos pretended to sniff and wipe away a tear. "Oh, Erchirion, I am trying to think of it as gaining a brother, not losing a sister."

The other laughed and reached over to squeeze Lothíriel good-naturedly on the arm. "Not losing a sister, losing a _brother_. Lothíriel seems to have a little of the worst of all of us in her. Growing up with us around her, she has developed a taste for bold pursuits – no sitting quietly at home for Lothíriel! And the way she wields a sword! Éomer had best watch his step around his new bride."

Despite her annoyance, Lothíriel could not help but feel a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You are just being silly now," she said, giving in to the smile that was taking hold of her mouth. Though nothing could lift her from her morose thoughts about her future husband, her brothers had always been able to make her laugh. "Or _you_ willbe ones finding yourselves at the point of my blade."

"Oh, I am quaking in my boots already," Amrothos smiled. "Just think, Erchirion, having to parry the blows of this _little_ lady."

Lothíriel gasped, wheeling her horse around so much that her mare gave a small snort of protest. He, of all people, knew that she absolutely hated to be called little, despite her tiny size. "You are the most incorrigible rogue I have ever met!" she cried, intending to give Amrothos a hard shove on his shoulder. Unfortunately, he dodged just in time, and she ended up only lightly tapping him on the arm.

"Yes," Erchirion continued, "I would like to see just how much damage someone so _diminutive _could do." She glared at her second brother, but hesitated to do what she had in mind, as Imrahil began to ride towards them. Being her petite self, she had begun to feel even tinier compared to the burly soldiers that she had been riding with for the past few weeks. Lothíriel gulped when she remembered that Éomer was considered large even among warriors.

Wonderful. She was going to marry someone who was at least a foot taller than her and weighed twice as much as she did when she was soaking wet. The image of herself standing next to a giant at her wedding, she barely reaching his navel, came to mind, and she could not help but suppress a laugh.

"Are you nervous?" her father asked, shaking her out of her reverie. He had heard his sons teasing her, and had pulled his horse back to join them. "We are almost to Edoras and you can rest soon. You must be tired after our long journey." He pointed out the distant hill in the west, where a tiny glint caught the sun. It was the Golden Hall of Meduseld.

She put on her best smile for him. "That is wonderful. But I will be fine." He gave her a worried look. "I promise," she said, after glancing back at Elphir, who had come to listen, the scowl never leaving his face. They had a small band with them, only Imrahil, the brothers, herself, and several guards. All of her things had already been sent to Edoras beforehand.

Before they had left, Imrahil had ordered her tailor to make a ridiculous amount of dresses and shoes, even though she had assured him that there were probably tailors of equal skill in Rohan. On the same note, he had made her take everything she owned, even though she assured him that the going would be easier if she only took essentials, and if she needed anything she had forgotten, it could be readily obtained in Rohan. But now that she was on the road, she was secretly glad that her father had been so attentive to her packing: seeing all of her things in Rohan would be like creating her own small bit of home in a strange land.

With her at the moment were some general necessities and some materials indispensable to healers: she planned to speak to Éomer about possibly working as a healer in the Rohirrim sick houses after their wedding.

Her father gave her a tight smile and pushed forward, riding toward the front of the group. From the distance, the scout appeared, his horse galloping. No, not galloping. He was riding the poor beast at full pace!

Amrothos, who was riding next to her, also saw this, and exchanged a look of alarm with her. It was not long before the entire group noticed the oddity, charging down the plains of Rohan towards them.

"What could be the problem?" Elphir murmured, pulling his horse up next to Erchirion's. Lothíriel bit her lip, which had become quite raw throughout the journey towards Edoras, and clenched the reins tighter in her hands.

"The scout probably has urgent news from the king. After all, we are not far from Edoras" Erchirion said soothingly. He was the most sensitive of the brothers and already knew that when Lothíriel bit her lips, it meant she was nervous. He had seen her mare snort, dancing away from the pressure on its mouth when Lothíriel had inadvertently pulled its reins too tight.

Even he was not convinced by his own words. "It must be very urgent," Lothíriel said. She always lapsed into sarcasm when fear gripped at her heart. "He is almost riding that poor beast to death with that pace."

"Well, we are about to find out," Amrothos said. He was no longer laughing.

Without realizing it, the entire group had stopped moving. Their horses kicked their legs nervously, sensing the agitation from their riders.

It seemed almost an eternity passed during the few moments it took for the rider to pull up to them, his horse dripping foam from its mouth and its hide lathered from the run. "My lords!" he cried, gesturing frantically behind him as he tried to catch his breath. But even before the words were out of his mouth, Lothíriel knew why he had been riding at full speed. There was no mistaking the crawling black masses that now swarmed over the hills. "There is a host of Orcs coming this way!"

* * *


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

**Attack**

* * *

"There is a host of Orcs coming this way!" the scout cried. "There is a band of Rohirrim Riders pursuing them, but it is unlikely that they will catch the Orcs before they are upon us."

Lothíriel's breath caught in her throat as she turned her attention from the man to the black figures on the plains before them. It was difficult to judge distance on the flat plains of Rohan, but it was clear that the Orcs were too close for them to make a safe escape now.

Erchirion voiced her very thoughts. "We will not be able to run from them! We must stand and fight, Father."

Imrahil's jaw was tense, his lips in a hard, straight line, but he nodded once in assent. "Protect Lothíriel!" he cried, drawing his sword, and pulled his horse directly in front of her. The rest of her brothers rallied around her, and the small band of warriors that were with them drew their weapons.

Lothíriel felt her throat go dry as the men around her blocked her from the sight of the dark creatures. They had all known that stray bands of Orcs still roamed the countryside, occasionally ransacking a village for food, but she had thought that those dangers were behind her when they had come so clse to Edoras. At a loss for what to do, she could only hold tightly to the reins of her mare.

Elphir, despite his prudishness, thrust an old scabbard under her nose, and she took it, wide-eyed. The sword within was heavy, much weightier than anything she had ever wielded when practicing with her brothers, and she realized it must have been Elphir's spare.

She bit down hard on her lower lip and could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Between the gaps of the men before her, she saw that the Orcs were no longer black figures, but clearly visible beings, each holding a wicked scimitar high in the air.

Cold fingers of fear gripped her heart.

"We are going to charge," her father said, his naked blade at his side. "Lothíriel, you must follow behind us closely. Elphir and Erchirion, stay by her side until we meet the Riders."

Her horse backed up a few steps. "Be brave, girl," Lothíriel whispered, though she did not feel any more courageous. The mare, no more of a warhorse than a rabbit, shook under her.

At her father's cry, she urged her horse forward, and within seconds, the Orcs were upon them. Her brothers remained firmly at her side, but Lothíriel could only hold tightly to her reins and to the scabbard in her hand. She gasped as the first of the Orcs were trampled to death as the men's horses charged into their midst.

But even as the men charged, many of the creatures leaped out of the way and began to attack from the side, roaring in their lust for blood. She did not know if she cried out or not, but if she did, her voice was lost in the sudden chaos of the battle. Blindly, she urged her horse forward, Erchirion and Elphir still cutting down Orcs as they rode.

In the distance, she saw the Riders of Rohan approaching, their helms and armor gleaming in the spring sunshine.

It was then that her mare's courage broke, and the poor beast stopped in her tracks, unable to move forward into the onslaught of Orcs. "Go, please!" Lothíriel cried, her heart pounding even harder. Her brothers' horses had continued to charge, leaving her far behind. She urged her mare forward, pushing it with her thighs, but it had frozen in fright.

To her horror, she found herself alone.

No, not alone.

Two creatures, both the size of full-grown men, had escaped the lines of the warriors, and had caught sight of her. Letting out an oath, she pulled at the reins, willing her horse to turn and run, but instead, her mare reared in fear.

She cried out, and the reins and the scabbard slipped from her hands. It was impossible to tell just when she fell from her mount, but in her next moment of cognizance, she was on the ground, surrounded by tall, yellow grass, her chest tight. Gasping for air, she managed to sit up, only to catch sight of her mare bolting in the other direction.

"Come back!" she tried to shout, but no air came—it felt as if someone was still stepping on her chest, and even as she stood, she felt pain shoot from her thighs and backside, where she had landed. Fortunately, the tall grass had broken her fall, and she knew that she was lucky to be standing, relatively unhurt. But without a horse, she would never catch her brothers and father—

"It is our lucky day."

Lothíriel froze at the guttural Westron; the accent was so thick, the words were barely intelligible. A chill went up her spine as she turned, remembering the two Orcs that had frightened her mare.

Both creatures were dark, burned by the sun, their mouths were painted a deep crimson from their last meal, and each wore patched, leather armor. The two advanced slowly, knowing that the warriors' attention was focused on the brethren that they had left behind. "Would you have guessed it?" the other snarled. "We've been served dessert after our meal."

He grinned viciously, showing his brown-stained teeth.

_Sword! Where was the sword?_

Lothíriel's hands went up to her chest, as if clutching the air for a weapon, but too late did she realize she had let it go when she had fallen off her horse. She had nothing to defend herself with.

Unwillingly, she began to back away, her hands still at the level of her chest, palms out, willing the creatures to stop advancing. "No, please."

"Come now, lassie," the first cackled. "Don't run. It'll only hurt for a second." He held his scimitar near his mouth, the blood on his weapon not yet dried, so that it dripped onto his armor.

She continued to back away.

Suddenly, her foot caught, and in her hurry to flee from the Orcs, she screamed, her other leg twisting into her dress. Before she could understand what had happened, she had fallen onto a body of a crushed, Orc, her long skirts becoming entangled in its body and armor.

Unable to help it, Lothíriel cried out, her hands slick with the dead creature's blood. But even as she tried to stand, she became more and more tangled in her own dress, which was now sticky with congealing blood. Frantically, she reached for the grass around her, trying to pull herself away from the pool of blood, but only managed to entrench herself further as the creatures neared, laughing at her plight.

Lothíriel would have thought her life forLothírielt had she not suddenly cut her hand on the edge of a blade in her hurry to stand. She looked down to catch a glimpse of the dead Orc's blade, which had almost been entirely hidden beneath the creature's trampled body.

Taking heart, she pulled at the weapon, ignoring the pain as its sharp edge bit into her hand, and soon, found the hilt. Her dress hid her discovery, and the two Orcs continued to walk up to her. They were so close, that she could smell their stench. Using the blade, she propelled herself to a standing position just as the first Orc was upon her, its weapon held high.

With a scream, she hacked at the Orc, using the scimitar in her hand like an ax. It embedded itself deep into the chest of the creature, and with a high pitched squeal, it fell. Lothíriel was pulled forward with her weapon, and she soon realized that no matter how hard she pulled, she could not get it dislodged from the dead body.

The other Orc roared at her surprise attack, and ran forward, slashing his own scimitar.

"Eru damn it!" she cried, releasing the weapon and fell forward to grab the fallen Orc's curved blade. Remembering her training with her brothers, she parried the blow that came from above. Metal met in a burst of sparks, and Lothíriel cried out in pain as the reverberations of the clash went through her body. Her arms turned to jelly, and she promptly dropped the blade.

The Orc screamed in triumph and raised its blade again.

"Lothíriel!"

She turned in time to see Amrothos riding hard toward her—she had not heard the beating of his horse's hooves because of the blood rushing in her ears. Before she could blink, he had launched his sword from his hand. At the same time, the Orc brought its blade down toward her head.

There was no way out.

Unless…

Lothíriel screamed again and dove forward, straight between the Orc's legs. She heard it cry out in pain when her brother's blade connected with his back, and she scrambled forward with her forearms, crawling away before the creature could fall on her.

"Lothíriel!" Amrothos had dismounted and was running toward her. With one sweep of his strong arms, she was on her feet and wrapped in a tight embrace. For once, she did not complain at her brother's over-attentiveness. "What happened?"

Supported by Amrothos, she felt the adrenaline that had been driving her leave her system, and exhaustion overwhelmed her. A sob welled up in her throat, and she buried her head in his shoulder, unable to speak. "What is wrong?" She could not mistake the urgency in his voice. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

She realized then that she was covered in what looked like her own blood. "I am alright," she answered, her teeth chattering. "I am not hurt."

Amrothos only held onto her more tightly. "Oh, thank Eru. Everything is fine. The Riders are here, and the Orcs have been destroyed."

At that news, she took in a shaky breath and stepped back, looking around her. The Riders were indeed there, many still atop their horses, and a few rode past them, scanning the horizon for more Orcs. More had dismounted and were using their spears to stab the bodies of the fallen creatures, making sure that they were dead. But at this distance, she could not make out any of her family members.

"What of Father?" she asked. "Erchirion? Elphir?"

Amrothos laid a hand on her shoulder. "All alive and well," he answered. "We did not lose anyone." He paused when he caught the look on her face. "By Eru, Lothíriel, you are as white as a sheet. How did you come to be here? Were you not with Elphir and Erchirion?"

She drew in another breath to try and steady her nerves before answering. "My horse threw me," she said, but her teeth were still chattering. "There were two of them, and I fell onto another one that was dead. This blood is his."

"Two?" he asked. "I only saw one."

Lothíriel closed her eyes. "I slew the other." But even the admiring gaze in her brother's eyes would not soothe her. The smell of the battle, the horses, and the Orcs entered her nostrils—she had not had time to be nauseated before, but now, she felt her stomach churn as she took in the scene of the dead and dying around her.

Amrothos must have seen her visage change, for he immediately said, "Come, we must get you to the healers. Can you walk?" He grabbed her hand, and a blinding pain shot through her arm. Lothíriel hissed and jerked her hand back to cradle it to her chest.

In the distance, she saw two figures riding toward them. "I cut myself," she said quickly, and shook out her hand, refusing to look at the wound lest she unload the contents of her stomach here and now. The smell was hitting her harder than ever, and she felt herself grow light-headed—she could not get enough air.

"Lothíriel!"

She looked up to see her father and Elphir riding toward them. Both slowed as they approached, but remained on their horses, as they saw Amrothos seemed capable of supporting her. "Are you alright?"

Before she could answer, Amrothos had spoken. "Her hand is cut, and her horse threw her. She says that she is alright, but we must take her to the healers for further examination." Normally, she would have objected to her brother answering for her, but another wave of nausea hit her, and she could only look up at her father.

Seeing her pale face, he immediately dismounted. "How did this happen?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. Then, seeing that his daughter was in state to answer, he helped Amrothos to support her. "Elphir, turn back for a healer."

Knowing that there must have been others more injured than she, she shook her head and put on a forced smile. "I am fine, Father. It is only a cut and will heal itself."

But Elphir was already on his way.

Staring after him, she saw another rider coming toward them. From the look of his helm and armor, he was a Rohirrim warrior.

"Let us get you on the horse," Amrothos spoke, helping her toward his own steed. However, knowing that the change in elevation would no doubt make her faint, Lothíriel shook her head fervently. Her stomach continued to churn, and she wondered if she would embarrass herself before this Rohirrim soldier. _What a way to introduce yourself to these people_, she thought bitterly, and let out a small laugh.

"My Lord Imrahil." She looked up again at the sound of a familiar voice. The man slowed his horse and removed his helm before dismounting. His blond hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his face was grim. "It is good to see you again, my friend. My men told me that you were here."

Lothíriel gasped when she recognized who he was. The man looked almost exactly the same as the first time she had seen him.

Éomer was still tall and muscular. He bore his heavy armor with ease, and he still had the playful skip in his step that made him seem restless. His face was still irresistibly handsome despite the frown his bore, with his straight nose, brown eyes, and kingly cheekbones.

"Likewise, Éomer," her father returned.

The Rohirrim king nodded and his eyes swept the scene before him, taking in the skirmish that had just occured. In a moment, he had turned his eyes fully on her.

With one glance, he seemed to take in everything: her dirty clothes, her long, tumbling hair that was now all in tangles, her bloodied arm, and the stupid, forced smile that was still pasted to her face. Lothíriel felt her heart leap violently in her chest.

_This is the man I am going to marry,_ she thought suddenly.

"Lothíriel?" he said, his eyes now dark with concern. He really was amazingly handsome.

The blood in her head rushed down, and suddenly, she staggered. Then, she did the most embarrassing thing of all.

She fainted.


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. I'm currently in school, and midterms have been hell. But now that Thanksgiving's drawing near, I've had some time to write. If you're looking for my other stories, they will also be updated soon.

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Chapter 4:

Lothíriel's Entrance to Edoras

* * *

She had only fainted for a moment, but it was enough.

Three pairs of arms went out to catch her, and the next thing she knew, Éomer, Amrothos, and her father were peering at her from above. Her father was shouting at no one in particular to find smelling salts and for a stretcher to carry her on.

She ripped herself away from the men, who protested for her to sit, but she blushed and threw Amrothos a plea of help. The three of them were nearly suffocating her from their proximity. Closest to her in age, Amrothos had always somehow understood her better than her two other brothers, and he held out a hand before the others could get to her. "I am alright," she said quickly, pasting the smile back on her face. "There is no need for a healer right now. I can ride… at least back to Edoras." Her words lost all their credibility as the blood rushed from her head again, and she staggered forward.

Éomer caught her before she could fall, and suddenly, she found herself being held by someone who had the same rigidity as a stone wall. He was strong and easily supported her weight, his warmth bringing life back into her

"You must be shaken from what happened," her father said. "You cannot ride back like this. You could fall off your horse!"

"Ride with me," Éomer said, his concerned baritone in her ear. "I will make sure you do not fall." She turned to him, unable to hold back an incredulous look on her face. Despite the warmth in his invitation, it was clearly inappropriate conduct, but she was even more surprised at the familiarity in his tone that had been completely absent in his short and cold letters.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Amrothos open his mouth, his eyes flashing fire. She did not want to think what Elphir would have done had he been here in the stead of her younger, and much more easy-going, brother.

"Thank you, but no," she said, trying to sound as polite as possible and disguise the surprise in her voice. She regained her balance and stepped out of Éomer's unintentional embrace. His hand lingered on her back, and she stepped away even further.

"Father, I can ride with Amrothos."

Imrahil nodded, and then, remembering her manners, Lothíriel turned to Éomer and gave her best curtsy in her blood-caked dress. "I am happy to see you, my lord," she said, and she thought about how ridiculous she must look, a princess, covered in blood and dirt. Involuntarily, she smiled, and caught Éomer looking quizzically at her. Deciding to test his mettle, she said cheekily, "I am sorry to disappoint you, as I am sure you were looking forward to a cleaner and…" she looked down at herself again "… less bloody me."

The king gave a soft laugh, and Lothíriel ignored the warning look that her brother cast at her. "The fact that you are alive and well is enough," he answered, the pinnacle of decorum, as if he had not just held her as if she was a harlot in a tavern. His eyes glinted, however, and she knew that he did not repent what he did.

"Come, sister," Amrothos interrupted them, stepping up next to Lothíriel, and she caught the look of challenge in his eyes. He glared at Éomer for another second, and she was sure that the king would draw his sword at the insult. But Amrothos looked away in time, and hastily helped her onto his horse before climbing on after her.

It was only then that Lothíriel came to the full realization that her own horse was gone, and with it, her healing supplies! "My horse!" she gasped. "We must find it!"

"Not now," Amrothos said between clenched teeth, and she quieted, remembering where she was. Éomer merely gave her family another nod, and rode a little ways before them.

Imrahil pulled his horse next to her brother's and gave his son an amused smile. Though he had not imagined such an entrance into Edoras, he had seen the look the king had given his daughter. "You need not be so protective, Amrothos," he said. "He is, after all, her future husband."

"Future being the key word, Father," Amrothos returned, his teeth still clenched. Lothíriel raised an eyebrow. Her youngest brother was not easily irked. "He looked like a barbarian! As if he was going to take her and—"

"Please!" Lothíriel interrupted, unwilling to hear more.

Her father and brother fell silent, but she was sure that they continued to exchange glances behind her back.

* * * *

The four of them soon joined again with the small band of Riders and Swan Warriors, and Lothíriel endured another round of questions from Elphir and Erchirion. Though she knew that they were only worried about her, she was getting a headache from the smell of horses and constant attention.

Amrothos saw that she looked ready to swoon again, and pushed the horse forward, away from the small crowd. She had not even had the chance to thank her brother before he ruined his chivalrous gesture by starting a conversation about Éomer.

"How do you like the king so far?" he asked casually.

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow. "From the two sentences that I have said to him?" she asked, a little annoyed again. _And the from the few lines he has written me in these six months? _she could not help but think bitterly.

Amrothos shrugged, and the assurance that his sister was not seriously injured seemed to bring back his usual good mood. "His good looks seemed enough to make you swoon," he said, venturing a small jest.

She groaned. _If only he would not talk about Éomer! _She did not want to think about her wedding at a time like this. "I have not even set foot in Meduseld, and I have already embarrassed myself in front of him," she grumbled. Then she checked herself. _Since when did I care about impressing the king? _"But truly, I cannot make any judgment."

Her brother gave a small laugh. "Have you not been writing to him this whole six months?"

Lothíriel sighed. Her family had only ever seen her send off her labored two-page letters every two weeks, but had never seen the replies. She had tried to make her own letters sound cheerful and after running out of things to say about her current life, the war, and a few other trivialities about their two kingdoms, she had begun to speak of her childhood, telling Éomer nonsense about her wishes to be a Healer and other dreams. His replies had always been short and had never said anything about her previous letters unless she specifically asked him a question. It was almost as if she was writing to herself. In truth, the letters became less about informing Éomer than they did of writing out her own thoughts so that they were visualized on paper.

But she could not tell this to her brother. "Everyone is different in life than they are on paper," she said, trying to be tactful.

This response, however, seemed to infuriate her brother. He ground his teeth and cried, "I have told father that marriage based on politics never work. Just look at Elphir and _his_ wife."

Lothíriel turned at this seemingly random outburst. "What are you talking of, Amrothos?" she asked, alarmed.

Her brother realized his mistake and composed himself before speaking. "Why do you think Erchirion and I have been refusing the marriages Father have set up for us in the past few years? We do not wish to become like Elphir. I want to get to know a woman before I enter such a contract as marriage." He sighed, and closed his eyes briefly. "And our refusals may be the reason he was so adamant about your marriage to Éomer."

Lothíriel looked straight ahead, staring at the gleam of gold before them, shining from the top of a hill. Meduseld was not far away now, and she could even see the small houses that made up the city of Edoras around the Golden Hall. "Elphir and his wife are unhappy?"

"You know he and his wife are not always on the best of terms," Amrothos answered.

The woman knit her eyebrows. "But I thought it was just couple bickering," she said. "Every married couple argues. It does not mean that they are unhappy."

Her brother shook his head slightly when she turned her head to look at him. "They try to be civil near you. But he tells me that their fights rage on for weeks, where she refuses to speak to him. And if I guess correctly, she has taken a lover."

Lothíriel gasped. "Is that why he spends so much time at the taverns?" She had always reprimanded her oldest brother about his philandering ways, but she had never understood why he had turned to them.

Amrothos did not need to answer.

She swallowed hard. Her father had to know about his eldest son's failed marriage. Had he learned nothing, then, about these arranged unions? She bit her lip, thinking of Éomer and whether or not he would become like Elphir, finding a different woman every night. Could she become so desperate as to cuckold him?

But there was nothing she could do now. Saying no would have been the epitome of dishonor even six months ago, and now that she was in Edoras, there would be no question as to what she must do.

"I am sorry," Amrothos said suddenly. "I do not mean to make you worry. I am sure Éomer is a good man, and you will like him."

Lothíriel shook her head. "No. I am glad you spoke your mind."

_I have to marry this man_, she told herself. _This man that seemed to care so little about our marriage that he only penned half-page letters through your entire six months of engagement. This man that had the nerve to ask you to ride with him even after all of that. _

But another voice spoke up in the back of her head. _Only if you want to. Will you really let the men around you run your life? _

_What can I do—back out of this now? That is impossible._

_You have not married the man yet, have you? _the dissenting voice spoke again.

"Well, no. But what am I supposed to do, run away?" She almost laughed when she realized she had spoken out loud. _Wonderful, Lothíriel, _she said to herself. _The first signs of a weakening mind: talking to your own head. _

"What did you say?" Amrothos asked.

"Nothing."

* * * *

The band arrived at the gates of Edoras without further delay. They were promptly let in, and Lothíriel cast her gaze upon the city that she had not seen for almost three years. It was much different now that the shadow of both Mordor and Isengard were gone: children laughed merrily from the sides of the road, waving at their party as they passed, and the peasants looked curiously from their fields as they worked.

Lothíriel could not help but feel more ashamed at her state of dress. Even now, the children were screaming out and pointing at her, their shrill voices making their speech unintelligible. She listened hard, trying to make out their sentences, but found that she could only catch a word here and there; as soon as she focused on one word, she would lose a string of others.

So far, she could only understand one thing: hair. Self-consciously, she touched the top of her head, wondering if her hair was caked with blood and dirt. It seemed fine to her.

"The children are wondering about your hair," a voice sounded to her left and she jumped in her seat. Whirling around, she found Éomer riding beside them, smiling at the excited youngsters. He turned toward her, his brown eyes gazing steadily. Again, Lothíriel felt as if he was taking in everything about her, his eyes roaming from her head to her muddied dress, and finally, down to where her legs, covered only in an old pair of trousers, straddled her horse.

Had a man looked at her thus in her father's court, she would have reprimanded him harshly for indecency. She was about to open her mouth, but found that she was rendered speechless by the rising warmth in her cheek.

"They have never seen such a shade," the Rohirrim King continued, his eyes falling on her hair, which was still loose and tangled. His gaze lingered there for a moment before he turned again to her. She again touched the top of her head, attempting in vain to smooth out the tresses. "It is beautiful."

Before Lothíriel could find the proper words in thanks, he had given her a slight nod and turned his horse forward. He pushed the stallion to the head of the band, taking his rightful place as he led them toward the Golden Halls.

She watched his straight back as he rode.

It was only afterward that she realized her heart was in her throat.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Brothers and Lovers**

* * *

Lothíriel continued to ride, her thoughts flying within her head. She became so caught up in her own thoughts that she did not even notice the people of Edoras bustling out of their way as they rode towards the Golden Halls.

It was only when the small party stopped that she realized where she was and came out of her daydreams about Éomer. _Stupid,_ she reprimanded herself. _Were you not just agonizing over marrying him a few minutes ago? And now you are lusting after him as if you were a young school girl. You are quite the fickle woman, Lothíriel._

Just when she was wondering how she was going to dismount with an injured arm and an incredibly sore bottom, the subject of her preoccupied mind seemed to magically appeared at her side. She blinked, trying to make sure he was real. The blonde mane, the straight nose, and the broad smile.

Yes. He was real and breathing. And yes, he was… breath taking.

"Need help?" he asked, his brown eyes sparkling, and held out his arms, as if he was going to receive a baby. It was strange how many different things those same arms could do: she knew he could use them to mercilessly slay Orcs, but now, he was ready to help and hold her, as if she were made of glass.

She could not protest, and swung her leg over the saddle. He caught her waist, carrying her down from her horse. As she descended, she could not help but think to herself that he was too close, and the way he was forcing her to slide down the length of his body was unnecessary. And again, he was looking at her in that way: as if he could see right through her with one piercing glance.

"Thank you," she said curtly when her feet touched ground, and realized that she was blushing furiously. He saw this and laughed. It was a deep, rumbling sound, like the moving of the earth, that originated from his chest. She was caught off guard by the mesmerizing feel of his body against hers, and did not immediately step away.

It seemed as if he held her for an eternity before she realized where they were, and immediately pushed the man away.

Éomer raised an eyebrow.

Lothíriel bit her lip and tried to come up with an excuse. "What a lovely view!" she exclaimed, her voice too high in her obvious lie. But it was enough of a reason for her to step away from the Rohirrim King, whose warm arms had encircled her. She took a few steps away from the small band, and looked down upon the lands of Rohan.

Edoras was a busy city, so much different from what she had remembered.

And Éomer. He, too, was so different from the cold, taciturn man she had met three years ago. His smile was inviting, and he treated her as if she had been his long time lover. But his letters…

"We must get you to the healers, my lady," Éomer said, coming up from behind her and interrupting her thoughts. She turned to look at the man. How was it that he was not nervous, like her? Thoughts of the city flew from her mind. "That wound of yours is bleeding again." For the first time she had seen him in these sixth months, he was not smiling, but staring intently at the cut on her hand.

He then seemed to remember something and turned to the Riders and gave a few orders in his own language. The crowd of soldiers began to disperse, and the horses were led away. Some carried the injured into Meduseld.

Lothíriel continued to study him. This was a man who was comfortable as king, a natural leader. Men respected him and he had a way with women. That he had made clear from the way he was still looking at her and the easy coming of his laugh.

"It is not serious, my lord," she said quickly, when he turned back to her. "It is just a small cut, and I can clean it myself. It will heal on its own, and I do not wish to take away precious time away from the healers and those that truly need them."

At her words, Éomer gave her a small smile. "I have forgotten. You know much about the healing arts yourself."

Lothíriel narrowed her eyes. So he had read her letters and remembered them. But if so, why only write back such short answers? "Not much, my lord," she said seriously. "But enough to treat a small cut such as mine."

Éomer nodded once. "Then allow me to show you to your rooms."

Lothíriel's eyes widened at the words. Though she was sure Éomer had not meant them to be scandalous, it was still inappropriate for him be anywhere near her room, unless her father allowed it she was accompanied by one of her brothers.

A small cough sounded behind them, and Lothíriel looked over Éomer's shoulder to see Elphir right behind them. "I will come with you," he said loudly, having obviously overheard their conversation. Éomer did not turn around in time, but Lothíriel caught the dark look that her brother aimed at the Rohirrim king.

She caught Elphir's eye and gave a slight frown.

"My apologies," Éomer said smoothly, turning to face the party that he had left standing on the steps of Meduseld. "I seem to have forgotten our honorable guests from worry for Lady Lothiriel." He nodded an apology toward Prince Imrahil. "If you will follow my manservant, Prince Imrahil and the rest, he will show you to your rooms. Your luggage will be brought up later for you to change and clean up."

"We thank you," Imrahil said warmly, though his eyes were still focused on Lothíriel. "And, Lothiriel, you will be alright?"

Lothíriel nodded once and smiled again, though she found that she was deathly tired and in great need of a bath. "Elphir," Amrothos piped up, "we will need your help getting Lothiriel's things."

Their oldest brother glared at them. "You will have to do without me. I am about to accompany Lord Éomer and Lothíriel to Lothíriel's chambers. You can bring the bags up afterward."

Lothíriel saw Eomer open his mouth once, but thought better of it, and shut it once more before putting a smile back on. "Of course," he replied, ever the polite host. "It is only appropriate." His sarcasm was so well hidden, that she would not have caught it had she not seen one corner of his mouth turn up slightly higher than the other.

The man was incorrigible!

Elphir, however, did not seem to catch the king's sarcasm, and picked up one of his bags determinedly, before turning to Éomer.

The king then motioned for his servants to lead the rest of the party away, while leading Elphir and Lothíriel into Meduseld.

* * *

Upon arriving at her room, Lothíriel was left to own devices, as her brothers and father had to be presented to King Aragorn and Queen Arwen, who had arrived recently for the wedding. She was excused because of her ordeal.

Feeling a bit better about being left on her own, Lothíriel ordered a bath and planned on unpacking her things when the sun set.

She had just stepped out of her bath and pulled her sleepwear on when someone knocked at her door. Her new handmaiden, ever the attentive servant, jumped up and asked, "Shall I answer, my lady?" Her name was Freya. She was one of the few servants who could speak Westron, so she was assigned to Lothíriel. She was both smart and reticent: both good qualities to have in a maid.

Though Lothíriel was more than ready for a good night's sleep after her relaxing bath, and quite annoyed at the intrusion, she knew that it would be rude to ignore anyone in Rohan on her first day here. "Yes, please," she said, shoving her feet into a pair of soft slippers.

As soon as Freya was out of sight, she jumped onto the bed and laid face down, reveling in the clean sheets and feather pillows. She had not been able to sleep on something so divine for nearly a few weeks now. The room was probably the best thing, next to the Undying Lands, for weary travelers, with its fluffy rugs, huge fireplace, and a bed fit for a king. There was also more than enough room for a bathtub, and Lothíriel had never seen so many assortments of soap and hair products in Middle-Earth. She had selected a wide variety and was very content with the way her sore muscles were beginning to relax.

She turned to a more comfortable position on her stomach on the bed, and tried to shut out any memories of the marriage, Éomer, and the journey here. She promised herself that as soon as the door opened, she would get up and look proper.

The creak of the hinge made her pull herself away from the bed, but she could not suppress a groan. Her eyelids were heavy, and she desperately wanted to go to sleep. However, her eyes fluttered open when she heard Freya's reproachful tone in Rohirrim, and a male's familiar baritone answering her dismissively. Freya's footsteps walked into the hall and disappeared. The door closed behind her.

Lothíriel cursed inwardly and stood, walking quickly toward the door. Her hurried step almost landed on Éomer, whom she had suspected had entered. She stepped back, her expression startled, though she was annoyed that he had a knowing smile playing on his lips. Again, he looked at her as if he could see right through her, and she noticed that he was eyeing her figure in her nightgown.

It was not a dirty look of lust, but somehow, a look of amusement. It annoyed her to no end, and she immediately crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. "What are you doing here, and why did you dismiss my servant?" she demanded.

He gave a small laugh. "That is no way to greet your husband-to-be, though I see your injury has done nothing to slow you down," he answered, looking toward her bandaged hand. He stepped closer to her, and, on instinct, she took another step toward him. "I wanted to speak to you before our wedding."

Her heart leaped into her throat, but her voice that came out was cold and almost calculating. "Good," she told him, somewhat relieved. "I wish to speak to you as well." The two looked expectantly at each other for a moment. She noticed that he was no longer wearing his armor and had on a black tunic with silver trimming. Matching black leggings and boots completed his attire.

Lothíriel swallowed. He looked even better out of his armor, in clean clothes, with his hair tied back. The flames from the fireplace danced in his eyes, and she found she had to look away before their beauty mesmerized her. She still could not understand how someone his size could look so powerful and wonderful at the same time.

"You spoke first," she said, trying to relieve the awkward silence between them. Even as the words left her mouth, Lothíriel wanted to eat them. Could she possibly have sounded more childish?

"I—"

Éomer had hardly opened his mouth when another knock came from the door. The king's eyes closed, and he gave a sigh of impatience. Lothíriel smiled apologetically but loathed to go near the door. Of all the times to be interrupted!

"Apologies," she murmured. The only people that would knock on her door at a time like this would be her father or her brothers. "It will only be a moment." They exchanged a glance, and both understood what it would mean if they were found together in a bedroom, with Lothiriel, the Princess of Dol Amroth, only wearing a nightgown. She pursed her lips and curtsied before turning.

Annoyed and ready to hear Éomer talk, Lothíriel wrenched open the door a little harder than necessary. "_Yes_?"

"Lothíriel." As she had guessed, it was her brother, and Elphir did not look any better than when Lothíriel had seen him last. She was beginning to wonder whether the pole up his arse was really the size of Minas Tirith or the Anduin. "I wish to talk to you about this marriage."

"It seems to be the only interesting subject these days," Lothíriel thought, and it was only from the pained look on Elphir's face that she realized she had said it out loud.

He tried to ignore it, and continued. "I do not understand why you insist upon this marriage, but I want to warn you. Éomer may seem like a good choice now, but –"

She had heard enough. "_Insist_ on this marriage?" she cried. "You were the ones that pushed me into it. You, Amrothos, Erchirion, and Father!

Elphir's eyes narrowed. "There seemed to be more than just our urgings in the way you were looking at him today."

Lothíriel felt her temper rise within her, and she fought to hold it down. "Why do you dislike him?" she asked. "He is not a bad man, hardly the worst I could do." She shut her mouth suddenly, confused at her own indignation. She was actually defending Éomer!

"Do you love him?" Elphir suddenly asked.

Lothíriel blinked stupidly. "What?" He had caught her off guard, and he knew it.

"Do you love him?" he asked patiently. His sister's silence was enough to answer him. He gave her a wry smile and shook his head. "You do not know, and yet, you are ready to marry him. Do you want to sacrifice your happiness so that Father can have another strong ally to boast about?"

The girl tightened her jaw. Her brother had voiced her thoughts exactly. If anything, she did not know her feelings toward Éomer. From what she had seen today, he was a good man, but could she live the rest of her life with him?

"Trust me, Lothíriel," Elphir said. "You do not want to be in my position."

With that, he turned and began to walk away.

Lothíriel bit her lip. "Elphir," she called. He turned part way and stopped. She swallowed before whispering, "Thank you." Her brother nodded once and turned back around.

Lothíriel watched him go and finally understood why Elphir had been so opposed to the marriage. He had been on her side all along, though he could not bring in the questions of happiness and love when her family had argued. That would have seemed hypocritical, and the last thing Elphir wanted was for Prince Imrahil to know he had made a terrible mistake with his eldest son. In Gondor, obedience was considered the most honorable trait in children.

Elphir had known she was not sure about Éomer, and he had wanted her to have the opportunity for love—something he had not had.

Thinking this, Lothíriel's heart swelled and a lump formed at her throat.

She really did have good brothers.

Resting her hand on the knob of her door, she knew what she had to do.


	7. Chapter 6

**Again, I'm very sorry for not updating this as much as I ought to. But for those of you that have been patiently waiting, here is the 6th chapter of this story. **

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**Chapter 6: ****Domestic Battles**

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Lothíriel stepped back into the room slowly. Éomer was sitting on her bed, his arms crossed, looking as if he belonged there. The half smile he wore was so enticingly handsome that it made her grind her teeth in frustration. Of all the men she had met in her life, he was truly the only one that could make her want to smile and stomp her foot at the same time.

"Who was that?" he asked as he stood and strode over to her. She could feel his power in his every stride, and it made her heart pound.

She clenched her fist. _Since when has a charming face made you so inept, Lothíriel_? "My brother, Elphir. He was just checking to see if I found my chambers to my liking."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "I see. And though it is incredibly discourteous, I must admit I overheard some of your conversation."

Lothíriel swallowed hard. "Oh, did you?" she asked, keeping her tone light.

The man smiled knowingly. "Yes. Something about love."

Her heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest and she tried to match his smile. "You must have misheard."

The king's smile widened. "Oh? Then what was it really about?"

Lothíriel opened her mouth to come up with some fabrication, but the king only laughed. "Did you know that every time you lie, your mouth twitches?" he asked. At her glower, he smiled again. "It is very subtle, but the right corner of your mouth moves ever so slightly every time you do not tell the truth."

"I am not lying!" she cried indignantly.

"Ah, there it is again," he said, his tone smug, as his eyes pierced through her once again. How she wanted to put the man in his place! "The Rohirrim do not lie, and so we can almost always detect it in others."

When she did not respond, but crossed her arms once again, he continued, "But since you do not seem to want to answer my question, I can only posit that your conversation was about your undying love for me."

Lothiriel narrowed her eyes as she opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. The egotistical, arrogant, high-handed –

"Oh," he said, still smiling and feigning disappointment. "Your expression begs to differ. And since I have no more guesses as to what your conversation was about, I assume you wish for me to pose the reason why I am here."

She could only bite down hard and glare at him. She hated how he so deftly put words in her mouth with his jests, not even allowing her to counter. It made her feel stupid and slow.

"I wanted to ask you why you agreed to marry me."

She blinked. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she struggled to work her jaw as the annoyance that had been building up within her dissipated. "I…" How did the man do that? How was he able to bring her to the edge of exasperation and then completely dispel it?

And most importantly, how was she supposed to answer him? _Why, what a coincidence. I was going to ask you the same question. But now that you mention it, I would like to let you know that I do not really wish to marry you. Can we stop the wedding, or at least wait until we know each other better? _She let out a breath. That would certainly end well. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

The man did not move. Amusement, however, came back into his eyes. "Wonderful," he answered. "That must mean you have prepared a complete and detailed explanation on your part." He smiled now. "So what was is? My good looks? My inescapable charm?"

Lothíriel brought her hand up to her temples as she felt her annoyance build up again. "Well, I can tell you what it is not," she answered. "And that is the size of your head. Do your shoulders ever get tired?"

The king let out a booming laugh, and it was only then that Lothíriel realized they had slowly been inching toward each other. Now, they were standing toe to toe, only a few strides away from touching. "There is nothing wrong with a little confidence, my lady," he answered, now positively towering above her.

"There is confidence, and then there is you," Lothíriel shot back, before even realizing what she was saying.

Éomer continued to smirk, the fire dancing in his brown eyes. He really was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Handsome, arrogant, and somehow completely knowledgeable about every way to grate her nerves. "Do all the women in Gondor speak as you do?"

"Only when they meet a man such as you," she said, becoming a little angry.

"A man such as I?" he asked. "And pray, what would that be?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you going to analyze me again when I answer?"

Éomer's eyebrows shot up in feigned innocence. "Analyze you?" he said, his tone light, almost as if he was toying with her, but she could catch a hint of annoyance building up within him. "Nay, only a loremaster could do that. I have trouble just reading you, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

Lothíriel realized she now possessed the upper hand, and to her horror, she delighted in his annoyance. She wanted to repay him for the exasperation he had caused her. "Perhaps you should spend more time in the libraries and less on your horse."

Éomer did not laugh but made a buzzing noise with his teeth. "Bzzzzz…"

She looked at him questioningly. "Come, my lord, I do not speak the language of the bees. What is the meaning of this?"

The king laughed now, realizing again that he had regained his advantage. "It is a wonder you do not, since you are so waspish."

Lothíriel's eyes flashed, unable to contain her anger. She was infinitely patient when it came to affairs of state, but for some reason, Éomer could dissolve all of her patience in just one conversation. "If I be waspish, best beware my sting."

The king put his hands on his hips again. "I have learned that in the past few minutes, my lady." His eyes, however, turned serious. "But come, come. You avoided my question."

She gulped. "Being a gentleman, you should volunteer your answer first," she countered. He moved even closer, and again, she was aware of how large he was. He could have easily quashed the answer out of her with one hand.

"Gladly," he promptly answered. "At first, I must admit I was marrying you because of political correctness. My messengers told me you were beautiful, intelligent, and tactful when dealing with diplomatic matters. What better match than a princess of Gondor for the throne of Rohan?" Lothíriel bristled at this abrupt numbering of her qualities; she again felt like a prized stallion being described at an auction, as she did all those months ago when she was first discussing the marriage with her father. What right did even he, the King of Rohan, have in degrading her like this?

But Éomer was not finished. "I was prepared for a dutiful marriage that would benefit my kingdom, but then I received your letters." He hesitated, and Lothíriel realized he was becoming embarrassed. "And I found a witty, charming young woman that I fell in love with." He stepped even closer to her. "I have read your letters countless times and always looked forward to the next." He laid his hands on her upper arms, almost holding her. "You cannot understand how well I feel I know you."

She looked to the floor. She was pleased that the Rohirrim king had looked forward to her letters, even when she was sure that what she wrote would only be briefly glanced over and tossed aside for more pressing matters. She then immediately felt ashamed for feeling this way.

Éomer leaned down, his hands ready beneath her chin, and before she could move, he kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, but tinted with an urgency and need that shocked her. His lips were warm, and the sensation sent shivers down her spine, making every place on her body more sensitive to the man before her. No man had ever touched her like this; no man had ever dared. She was shocked but also aroused that this man that she barely knew was so forward.

She was filled with an urge to kiss him back and cupped his face in her hands, unable to move away from his lips. Now, his lips met hers hungrily, as his hands caressed her face and moved up to touch her hair.

For a moment, she was lost. Her hands moved to his chest, wanting him to come closer. It was easy to get lost in his arms, which held her almost possessively.

Her mind returned to her, however, and Lothíriel suddenly realized she was still in her room, alone with Éomer. They were going to be married in three days, and if he continued to kiss her like this, she would never tell him about her doubts.

_Stop! _the rational side of her head cried.

She pulled back from their embrace, though her body obeyed with much reluctance. Her heart pounded at the back of her throat, and she felt like a scared rabbit, desperate to get away from the hound, and yet, strangely fascinated by it too. Éomer opened his eyes, the embers from the fireplace dancing there.

"If I cannot have that for the rest of my life, I do not know the purpose for living," he said.

Lothíriel closed her eyes and her mind conjured up a myriad of curse words. _Of all the romantic things he could have said! _her head cried. And yet, despite the cliché, there was sincerity in his voice. Though she did not want to admit it, she was moved, and her face warmed.

But she had to stay in a business frame of mind. This was no time to lose her head, as she knew what question was coming. She had to deflect it. "Why the short note in return?" she asked. "Why did you never pen longer letters, even when I tried to reach you?"

The man's eyes narrowed. Other women that he had wooed when he was younger had nearly fallen over with joy when he spoke of love to them. This was not what he had expected. "Did you want a novel from me, professing my love for you?" he asked. His tone hardened, and Lothíriel bit her lip. He had not even raised his voice with her, but she suddenly felt all of his power and strength bent against her. "After your two-lined acceptance letter?"

_Valar curse it_, she thought. She knew the note would come back to haunt her. But could he not understand? The messenger had had to leave the next morning, and she had been pressured by her father and brothers to write the letter quickly. So how could she have taken the time to explain? Besides, he would think her crazy if she mentioned the three-paged letter she had balled up and thrown away. But in all the other letters, she had never once explained her doubts about the marriage.

"I… I…" she could not find any other words but the ones already in her head. She fumbled for more, but they would not come. "I do not wish for the wedding to take place." As the words left her mouth, she realized how terrible they sounded and nearly clamped her hands across her teeth. "Yet." She managed to save herself a little.

_You are an idiot! _her mind cried. _What happened to the tact he so praised you of?_ She thought of even more colorful words and wanted to spit them out at her own stupidity.

He stepped forward until he was almost touching her. "Why not?" he asked. He did not seem angry.

The words poured forth. "I am not ready for marriage," she suddenly said, floundering for an explanation. She had rehearsed this speech many times on the journey to Edoras, and she thought that she could be eloquent. But her mind was blank, and she could only present a bounty of blather. "I would not know what to do as queen. We do not know enough about each other. The only time I have seen you was when we first met, years ago. We have been apart longer than we have been together, and frankly, I do not yet know if I can spend the rest of my life with you."

Lothíriel stepped back, hoping Éomer would not follow her. He did not. Instead, he looked stricken, as if she had slapped him across the face. _He will hate you for those last words! Can you possibly stick your foot deeper into your mouth?_ her mind cried. She had been stupid, she knew. Obviously, she had already taken a page out of the Rohirrim's book. But Gondorian princesses were not supposed to speak so brashly.

"Did you tell Imrahil this?" Éomer asked quietly.

She nodded. "My father did not understand. He—"

"He forced you to accept?"

Lothíriel gasped in horror. "No!" she cried, but the same knowing look came back to Éomer's face. Instead of amusement, she saw sadness. "He did not force me. My brothers—"

It was then that she saw the king's eyes flash with fire. "So that was what you really were speaking of outside with Elphir?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. Lothíriel's heart leaped in her chest uncomfortably. Éomer snarled at the floor as he threw his hands up and began to pace the floor. "So, your father and brothers pushed you into this, did they? And you agreed because of my station?" He laughed a little, a sharp bark that made Lothíriel jump back in fear. "

He broke off, pacing the floors of her room, a lion in rage. He seemed to grow with his anger, and suddenly, he reached out, grabbing a small porcelain ornament from the mantle. With a cry, he threw it into the fireplace, where it shattered.

The flames roared as it consumed its new fodder, and Lothíriel stood rooted to the ground, her heart pounding in her throat. She did not know how it was possible, but this beast, roaring before her, was more frightening than the both Orcs she had met on the plains of Rohan. Her eyes fell on the knotted muscle beneath the sleeves of the king's tunic, and she realized how easily he could use his strength to kill her in his anger.

But just as quickly as his outburst had come, it passed.

He stopped his pacing, and for a moment, he closed his eyes as if gathering himself. The muscles in his arms loosened beneath his tunic, and as they did, he seemed to return to normal size.

But the line of his jaw was still hard as he turned his gaze to her. His dark eyes no longer held the playful look of a confident man. Instead, they were expressionless as he bowed low to her. "Good night, my lady," he said curtly, and turned on his heels to leave the room.

"Wait!" Lothíriel cried, not knowing why a sudden sadness came over her heart. She scrambled to run in front of him and block his exit. Guilt filled her, and she desperately wished she could take back her exchange with Elphir that Éomer had partly heard.

Éomer paused and again raked her with an expressionless look.

"I apologize for what you overheard," she said quickly, looking toward the ground. "And for my words. I did not mean for them to sound the way they did. My father and brother did not force me into this marriage."

"Your lip is twitching," he said gently and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. His lips were cold and hard. She wondered how the same man could give two such different kisses within the span of a few moments. Involuntarily, tears came to her eyes. He did not see them, however, as he quickly looked away. "It is too late to for us to stop the wedding now, but I will let you know, women are free to do as they choose in this land. I will not stop your actions once you are queen."

He turned to her with a small smile, though his eyes were devoid of humor, and left the room. Lothíriel stood her ground, stunned. All she could muster was the coldness in her chest and the urge to run after the man and explain herself again. _Well, what are you waiting for? _her mind asked. _Go after him! _

But her feet were planted to the floor. With a small click, the door closed. His footsteps were barely audible outside.

It was then that her body chose to come unfrozen.

"Curse it!" were the first words out of her mouth as she sat heavily on the bed, wiping a hand over her watering eyes. Why was she crying?

For Valar's sake, she had almost ruined her own life and the hard work her father had put behind his marriage. Of course she was crying! Her lack of tact was unbelievable: she was acting as a commoner, not as a princess. She, of all people, should know better than to spring such words on her future husband like that! She, like any daughter, must do her duty.

Well, she finally put a name to this arranged marriage.

That was the only reason she was marrying Éomer: duty.

And yet, did she really wish to marry because of politics?

It was the only way for her.

Closing her eyes, she spun his last words around her mind. Had he implied that she wanted the throne so she or her family could have power? She had no such intensions, but how could she make him understand?

Unwillingly, her fingers brushed her lips, and her cheeks burned as she remembered Éomer's kiss. The tingling sensation ran down her spine again at the memory, and her face grew even hotter. Frustrated at her own reaction, she threw herself backward onto the bed and stretched her arm over her face.

"Stop being an idiot, Lothíriel," she muttered into her own sleeve. She needed herself to be clear-headed in this mess that she had created, but her body was not cooperating.

"I am sorry, my lady. Did you say something?"

Freya had come back into the room. Sitting up, Lothíriel straightened herself and began braiding her long hair nonchalantly.

"No, Freya, nothing."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 **

**New Impressions**

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The next morning dawned bright and sunny, almost mocking Lothíriel's sour mood. She rolled out of bed when the sun was high, still tired from her journey. The banner of Eorl of the Young that hung over the fireplace in her room immediately reminded her that she was in Rohan and she would be married to their king in two days. This, of course, reminded her of her exchange with Éomer the night before.

What had possessed her to say such things? In the morning sun, the event seemed even more ridiculous.

She hurriedly dressed and tried to think of a way to undo the harm she had caused, but her mind continued to drift back to the way Éomer had kissed her, how he, of all people, had known that her lip twitched whenever she lied.

No one but her mother had known that about her.

A knock interrupted her thoughts, and she swore loudly at the interruption with a curse that even Amrothos would have blushed at.

"Shall I answer, my lady?" Freya asked, peeking her head around the corner, where the bedroom led into the bathing room. Lothíriel closed her eyes for a second, embarrassed that she had let the servant hear her. She desperately wanted to say no but knew that she could not.

"It is alright, Freya," Lothíriel said with as much composure as she could muster. "I will answer myself. You may go about your other duties. I shall be fine here by myself." The servant girl gave her a look, not too long as to be insolent, but long enough to let her know that she knew the king had spent the better half of an hour in Lothíriel's rooms alone with her.

Before Lothíriel could say anything, Freya bobbed her head and went out.

She followed the servant to the door, where Amrothos was standing. His expression, thankfully, was neutral, and Lothíriel guessed that Éomer had not stormed the chambers of her father and brothers, raging about how childish she had acted about their marriage.

At least one of them had acted like royalty.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Amrothos said pleasantly. "Father and the rest of us were wondering when you would get up."

Lothíriel looked down at what her brother was wearing and realized that his clothing was much finer than normal. That was strange, as Amrothos usually opted for comfortable trousers that he could ride horses and climb trees in. Despite being her older brother, he was still a boy at heart. She smiled at the thought of his innocence.

That thought went out the window when she saw him give Freya an appreciative glance as the servant girl walked past him. The golden-haired girls of Rohan must seem exotic and refreshing to the men of Gondor, who were used to dark-haired women, Lothíriel realized. And judging by the smile on her brother's face, he had probably already charmed one of the serving wenches in his chambers.

She set her mouth in a line, determined not to reprimand him. Like all her brothers, he was seen as a prize for many ladies: to catch one of them was to catch the title of princess, and naturally, all three had women swarming to them on a regular basis.

Elphir had warded off most of them by marrying, but Erchirion and Amrothos were seen as two of the most eligible bachelors in the lands of men.

"Good morning," she said sourly.

"Ah, good," Amrothos said, looking down at her dress. "At least you dressed well. You must have already heard that you are to be presented to the people today."

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Her brother made an impatient sound in his throat. "Well, you cannot expect your wedding to be a private ceremony. Naturally, you are going to have to be presented to the people so that they can see who their new queen will be. And hopefully, this time, you won't be covered in blood. Come on, then. A hasty breakfast for the sleeping beauty, then the ceremony, and after that, your dress fitting!"

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And a hasty breakfast it was indeed. Prince Imrahil made her practically inhale her food as he spoke to her quietly about how she was to present herself. They were in Imrahil's chambers, and Lothíriel was only half listening to her father. He said nothing new, as she had been presented many times before to the citizens of Gondor. She was to nod, smile, say a few words of thanks and hope. It was mostly about looking beautiful and handing out alms to the poor.

Her father then proceeded to march her toward the Great Hall, almost dragging her by the elbow as if she were a little girl again.

She reached the hall before she realized the full impact of the presentation. Of course, it would not just be by herself, with her father and brothers behind her. She would have to stand with Éomer, and she would have to look happy.

But even as she thought this, she and her father rounded the corner into the hall, where Éomer was already waiting.

Even with his back to her, his presence made her catch her breath. In his formal attire, with his cloak drawn about his shoulders, Éomer made a stunning figure. He stood almost half a head taller than some of his men, and his broad shoulders made Lothíriel think of the night before, when he had been in her room.

She felt a flush come over her face, and she immediately drew up her cold hands to her cheeks. The last thing she needed was for others to notice that she was blushing in front of Éomer. If the Rohirrim were anything like the Gondorians, this blush and Freya's knowledge about their meeting last night would travel through Meduseld faster than wildfire. She had been the subject of court rumors before, and she did not intend to begin another.

Imrahil released her, and she realized that he did not wish to interfere when she approached the king. Taking a deep breath, she stepped next to Éomer.

"Good morning, my lord," she said, her voice only semi-audible. "I hope you slept well."

The last part did not even sound believable to her own ears, and she noticed that one side of Éomer's mouth quirked up in a bitter smile. "Quite," he said, his voice just as stiff as her own. He looked up to see her father behind her and managed to pull on a believable smile. Holding out his arm, he said, "Let us go then."

Tentatively, Lothíriel took his arm, and they stepped out of the throne room into the bright, spring sunshine. Gathered outside already was a large crowd of the people of Edoras.

As she stepped out of the large wooden doors, Lothíriel turned and met the cold, grey eyes of a beautiful woman dressed in gray and blue. Her golden hair fell to her waist, and her back was stiff with formality.

Lothíriel knew immediately who it was.

Éowyn, Éomer's sister. She had been incredibly cold and distant when Lothíriel had come to Edoras all those years ago, and it did not seem like she had gotten any friendlier.

Somehow, the look she gave Lothíriel seemed to freeze and smolder at the same time.

Lothíriel forced herself to look straight ahead, the hair on the back of her neck rising. She knew that Éowyn was known for many great deeds. She was rumored to be a good ruler alongside her husband, Faramir, and of course, she was known for slaying the Witch-King of Angmar.

For a moment, she had an image of a crazed Éowyn coming after her with a sword, and while that future was not entirely out of the question with the way the woman had looked at her, Lothíriel could not help but bite her lip to avoid laughing.

_What is wrong with you_? the more proper side of her reprimanded. _Giggling at a time like this? _

She sobered instantly, swallowing the laugh and remembering where she was. Standing before her were King Elessar and Queen Arwen, who, at the moment were being presented as royal guests to the people. She and Éomer would be next.

The king and queen spoke a few words of greeting in the Rohirric tongue, but their time with the people was brief. Everyone was waiting for her and Éomer, Lothíriel realized. It was, after all, the announcement of their wedding, and the crowd was expecting nothing less.

A man next to her, dressed in Rohirrim finery, shouted out their titles in his own tongue. His voice was clear, and he spoke slowly, so Lothíriel was able to catch most of the words, though none were of interest to her. The man had basically announced Éomer as the king of Rohan, protector of the peace, and many other long titles. She was presented as Princess of Dol Amroth, along with another string of titles, though far shorter than Éomer's.

Without thinking, she had pulled on a smile before the crowds and put up a hand in a wave. She had been doing things like this since she was born, and could not help but be a natural. The people were cheering; some threw flowers at her feet. She picked one up and held it to her chest, eliciting more cheers.

Éomer allowed this go on for a few moments before raising a hand. The noise withdrew a little, and he began to speak. His words, too, were clear and slow so that the crowds could understand, and, again, Lothíriel was able to make out the most of what he said.

"I thank you for joining me on this day," he said. "I know as well as you that Rohan has had hardships. Rohan has suffered much in the days during and after the Dark Lord. But after sorrow, we must not forget joy. After tears, we must not forget laughter.

"Today is a day of joy. I present to you my future wife, your future queen, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

The cheers began again, and Éomer stepped back, clearly ready to leave.

Something seized her at that moment.

She was tired, she realized. Tired of being put in the shadows. Tired of doing her duty. Tired of not being able to speak her mind unless it was in private.

For a moment, even though she knew that Éowyn hated her, she admired the other woman. Éowyn had refused to let others dictate her life for her. She had refused to be caged, and she had been respected for it – now she was known as the slayer of the Witch King.

And she had married the man she loved.

Without knowing it, she had taken a few steps forward, and her movement had shushed the crowd once more. Her hands shook at her side, and she could feel Éomer's eyes on her. He was wondering what she was doing, but suddenly, things became clear.

"Thank you for the welcome, people of Edoras," she said. Her Rohirrim was slow and halting, but she had spoken in front of crowds before and knew how to project her voice. "Your city is beautiful and your people generous for hosting myself and my kin.

"I must admit, I was hesitant, even scared to come to Edoras. It is very different from my home. But sometimes, change can be good. And I sense a change for the better."

More applause and cheers.

She stepped back and turned, only to find Éomer looking at her in a curious and bemused manner. Her hands were still shaking at her sides, but she held one steady and looped it into Éomer's elbow. She purposefully avoided the man's gaze, but smiled to herself.

Her speech had been enigmatic, but it had substance. Essentially, she had shown the Rohirrim people, her father, her brothers, and Éomer that she would not stand quietly by her husband while life went on around her. She intended to be a part of the change that was sure to come to Rohan with her joining the royal family there. Most importantly, she had spoken for herself. The people knew that she was vocal, and that the queen's power would not just be nominal.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**One Step Forward, Two Steps Back**

* * *

_The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for love. _

_-The Monarch_

Baladhel the Shrewd

* * *

Back behind the curtain, Lothíriel took a breath to steady herself. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she felt as if she had just drunk a heady draught: there was a dizzying but warm feeling within her body, and she felt a glow come to her cheeks. She watched as her father and brother walked back into the room, their presence merely needed to show the people that they were there.

To her surprise, her father gave a warm smile and a slight nod before following King Elessar out of the room. Her glance then fell on Éowyn, who was now giving her a look that she could not read. Upon catching her staring, the woman narrowed her eyes and left the room as well.

_Ugh, if she wants to kill me, let us take up swords and just be done with it,_ Lothíriel found herself thinking. _So she has killed the Witch King. I, too, have an Orc in my headcount. _She almost shook her head at the thought; her speech really was making her feel too brave.

Lothíriel then looked back at her brothers and found that Elphir had also seen the smile between their father and her. The two exchanged a glance as if to say, _Well, _that_ was unexpected_, before her brothers, too, strode from the room after bowing to Éomer, leaving the king with her, alone.

Slowly, she turned to find Éomer studying her.

"You speak our language well," he said, almost grudgingly.

She was surprised herself. Over the past six months, she had not shown any promise as a student of the Rohirric language, but in a few seconds of panic and stubbornness, words had flowed out of her. Had she been having a normal conversation, she would have hemmed and hawed over different verb conjugations in her mind, making sure to use to the correct tense. But in that moment, she had spoken with poise.

"Thank you," she nodded once. "I have been practicing your tongue for the past six months."

She wanted to add, _Ever since we were engaged, _but something held her tongue. However, Éomer still could not have missed the reference of that time frame.

To her disbelief, however, he gave her a sneer of a smile. "Doubtless, your father wished for you to be the perfect bride."

She opened her mouth to protest, but now, could find no words. It was true that her father had insisted upon the lessons, and she could not say that she was an enthusiastic student. "Yes, well, I am sorry if I have disappointed," she said, her voice filled with acid.

She immediately regretted it.

_What are you doing_? She admonished herself. She had wanted to make peace, to get back into Éomer's good graces again. _Not likely, is it? After what you told him last night. _It was true. Had she actually thought with a few words she would be on friendly terms with the Rohirrim king? But she had not meant for the feud to continue in such a way.

"Hardly," Éomer replied almost immediately. "He trained you to be a perfect queen."

Lothíriel clenched her teeth at this. To suggest that she was merely using him for his throne was unfair and below the belt. She had admitted to him the night before that she was not ready for marriage, and now he dared to hit her with this?

She could feel anger boiling up inside of her, ready to spew from her mouth. The words poured forth before she could even think about them. "Yes, I believe I am much more ready to be queen than you were to be king."

When had she become such a bitter and evil woman? The reference to the fact that Éomer was not ever supposed to be king, but had come to the throne because of his cousin's and uncle's deaths, was more than being vengeful. It was downright nasty, and Lothíriel almost covered her mouth with her hand. Never in her life had she said such an awful thing to anyone.

The king stared at her, stunned, and she, too, stood for a moment, appalled at what she had just said. "I… I am sorry," she almost whispered, her voice hiding in the back of her throat. "Oh, gods. I did not mean…" She stumbled over her words, her tongue tripping on the syllables as if they were hidden rocks beneath a plain. "Please forgive me," she finally said. "That was terrible and stupid of me to say. I was angry and I did not think…"

Instinctively, she reached out to take his hand, but he withdrew, taking a few steps back before silently leaving the room.

Lothíriel was left alone to contemplate just what had made her so shrewish.

* * *

Upon returning to her room, tired, saddened, and feeling as if she had taken one step forward but two steps back, Lothíriel was met with a very agitated Freya.

"My lady!" the servant girl cried as soon as she laid eyes on her. "Where have you been? You were supposed to go for your final dress fitting a half a stripe ago!"

At this, Lothíriel groaned out loud. She vaguely remembered Amrothos mentioning a dress fitting, but after the row with Éomer, she had completely forgotten about it and had let herself wander Meduseld unattended. "Sorry," she muttered. "Where must I go?"

Freya was none too pleased about giving the directions, mentioning that the seamstress had already sent up two messengers, both of which had harassed her about the whereabouts of the princess.

After calming poor Freya a bit, Lothíriel dragged herself to the location of the dress fitting, which was stationed in a small room to right of the great hall. There, she found Erchirion unsuccessfully trying to calm a plump, blond woman, who was feistily indicating a long white dress on a mannequin. In a few moments, she realized why the two were so frazzled, as neither spoke the other's language.

"Peace!" she said in Rohirrim, walking toward the woman. "I am sorry that I am late."

The woman immediately began to speak at such a speed that Lothíriel could only catch a few words here and there. From what she could make out, she assumed that the woman was lamenting on how much work she had put into the dress and how the princess did not appreciate her efforts, as shown by her lateness.

Lothíriel apologized profusely (she seemed to be doing that a lot that day), and tried to show how sorry she was by being the perfect model. She let herself be poked and prodded—it seemed as if the woman was measuring every inch of her, something that seemed completely unnecessary as the dress was already made and she merely needed to try it on for some final adjustments.

"What are you doing here?" she asked Erchirion as she stood before a long mirror, holding her hands out to both sides. "No fun activities for you to participate in today?"

She could see her brother roll his eyes in the mirror. "Father has designated me as the office seal of approval on your wedding dress. You know him. Everything must be perfect for the big day. And since Amrothos and Elphir know nothing about dressing well, I was sent."

Lothíriel almost laughed at that, even though her thoughts were still sober. It was not that Erchirion cared at all about the latest fashion. It was just that Amrothos was much too carefree to pay attention to what was on his back, and though Elphir took pride in appearing neat and orderly, the poor man could not match his tunic and leggings on his own if it killed him.

"After that big speech you gave today, I suppose you are entirely without cold feet for the wedding?" he continued.

That sobered Lothíriel even more. She tried to keep the expression neutral on her face, but Erchirion saw her bottom lip quiver. He tried to keep the air light, however. "Well, everyone has cold feet. Nothing to worry about."

She almost burst into tears right then, but the tailor, whose name she had finally found out was Alwyn, ushered her behind the screen to finally put on the dress. As Lothíriel pulled off her clothes and pulled on the silky material, she found that it was easier speaking behind the screen, not seeing the expression on Erchirion's face.

"I can't get married to him," she said, her voice soft. But she was speaking the truth, and it felt good to finally get the words out.

There was silence on the other end of the screen.

Then, "Why?"

The words poured forth once again. "He hates me, Erchirion," she said. "And it is my fault." With that, she told her brother the entire story of what had occurred in her bedroom the night before, how he had told her about his desire to marry her, how she had foolishly told him she wanted to wait. Then, there was this morning after the speech. He had been angry with her, and she had said things that she could not take back.

The story was finished just as Alwyn finished lacing and buttoning her, and Lothíriel was pushed out from behind the screen, before the mirror once again.

She could not help but gasp.

The dress was made perfectly for her. Her measurements had been sent beforehand and Alwyn must have worked tirelessly for weeks to make this creation. The dress was had a fitted bodice made of the lightest silk that flowed down her hips and spilled to the floor like silvery water. The silk was overlaid with intricate lace that flowed over her shoulders and down her wrists; it continued down the front and back of the dress, creating a small train.

The tears did come now.

The dress was beautiful, but she looked wrong wearing it. This was a dress for someone who had no hesitations, someone who knew perfectly well whom she wanted to marry

She moved her hands to her cheeks brushing away the tears as Alwyn cooed over her, mistaking her anguish for joy. Erchirion saved her, stepping in between herself and the seamstress. Taking one look at him, Lothíriel knew her brother understood.

"Call off the wedding," he almost whispered, leaning closer to her.

She bit her lip. "I cannot. Everyone has put in so much work for it. Father, King Elessar, Rohan, even Alwyn." She glanced down at the dress once more. "I cannot let down everyone. I cannot put the world aside for myself."

Her brother shook his head once. "Your happiness is not something to be taken lightly, sister."

She almost laughed, thinking back to a line in _The Monarch_, a book she and her siblings all had to read when they were children. While much of what the author thought was now long outdated, her father lived by many of the recommendations made in the volume. " 'The role of the monarch is not to achieve selfish happiness but to find happiness through serving others,'" she quoted.

Her brother coughed to cover his own laugh. "Please not that! There are times when I still cannot get those words out of my head. Why Father ever made us memorize passages from an outdated book is beyond me. Besides, you cannot take seriously a political theorist who wrote, 'It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.'"

Lothíriel turned back to her reflection. "Well, I do not have to take all of his ideas as seriously as Father does. I reserve the right to pick and choose," she said, biting her lower lip. "Besides, even Father does not live by _that_ ideal. One must be incredibly jaded to take Baladhel at face value."

She looked back at her brother to find an almost pitying expression on his face. "And I hope you never become that jaded," he said quietly. There was a moment of silence while Lothíriel studied her brother, but before she could fully figure out what he was thinking, he seemed to shake himself out his mood.

"Well, I suppose I must report back to father," he said. "The dress is beautiful, and everything appears to be in order."

With that, he kissed her on the cheek and left the room.

* * *

_A/N: I apologize, everyone who has been reading this story. I was at an incredibly busy point in my life, and I still am. I just finished my first semester in medical school, which did not leave me any time for writing, and for a while, I thought I had completely given up writing fan-fiction. Fortunately, I have found that I love Tolkien too much to do that, and I am happy to let you know that I hope to finish this fiction within the next month. _

_A few things as you continue reading... _

_I have become incredibly interested in writing and literature within the Tolkien universe. (Most likely because I majored in English... lol) Of course, as Tolkien fans, we have all heard of _The Red Book of Westmarch_ and _The Book of Marzabul _that tells about Balin and the dwarf colony in Moria, but what about others? Surely, with the rich cultures of Gondor and Rohan, there are other books that people quote and are altogether immersed in their everyday lives. _

_Because of this, I have decided to make a few additions to Tolkien's universe that are not altogether in cahoots with Tolkien's own sense of his world, I hope. One of those additions is setting Gondor as a medieval European type of society, while Rohan is more of a pre-England, Anglo-Saxon community that has acquired horses. After all, the Rohirrim language is just Old English. _

_With this, I have also added some flavor to their literary history by writing in a few books that actually exist in our world. One of those is Baladhel's _The Monarch, _which is based on Machiavelli's _The Prince. _Over the next few chapters, I will also be incorporating more Old English literature into Rohirric history, and you may see splashes of _Beowulf _or even _Dream of the Rood.

_I hope you enjoy my work, and, if you are not familiar with Old English literature, also get a taste for these wonderful pieces of literature that have made my college experience amazing. _

_-CrystalFNfire_


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 **

**Of Horse Lords and Ladies **

* * *

_Felaróf I named you. You loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that. But now you owe me a great weregild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life's end. _

-_The Legend of Eorl the Young_

Author unknown

* * *

By the time Lothíriel was deemed no longer necessary by the seamstress Alwyn, she was tired enough to want to return to her bed. It did not help that her heart was heavy with her guilt of what she had said to Éomer and the looming thought of her upcoming marriage. Often, when she was still in Dol Amroth, she thought about the prospect of having a husband that had nothing in common with her—words were never exchanged, and she was doomed to go on living this way, in a loveless marriage.

She shuddered at the idea and longed to see the sun, hoping the weather would warm the iciness within her.

She turned the corner, wishing to get back to Great Hall, only to almost collide with a tall, blonde man.

"Good day, my lady Lothíriel," he greeted her, bowing low.

Lothíriel jumped and would have let out a scream if she had not been trained so well in poise. There was something uncanny about a man this large who was still able to sneak up on her.

He straightened, and she saw that he was wearing an emblem of Eorl the Young on his chest, indicative of his status as a soldier of some sort. He was smiling politely, and it was only then that Lothíriel realized that she had been so shocked that she had forgotten to return his greeting.

Luckily, he, too, was well trained in manners. "Forgive me. My name is Éothain, Captain of the Mark. I am a good friend to my lord Éomer, and he has instructed me to give you a tour of Edoras. He is caught up in a meeting with his council members or doubtless, he would have given you the tour himself."

He spoke the Common Tongue well, with a hint of the guttural accent that most Rohirrim had. He smiled at her, and Lothíriel could imagine a roguish, boyish grin in its place. Éothain was undoubtedly handsome, much like his lord, with a straight nose and hair that was almost red. Here was a man that had barely grown out of adolescence, but had to take on responsibilities of a man.

Remembering her manners this time, Lothíriel thanked the man, adding that she was delighted to finally see more of Edoras. "Please, lead on."

"Aye." Éothain smiled and spun on his heels, indicated that Lothíriel should follow.

She soon found that the man was of a cheerful disposition and was a good companion to put her own gloomy thoughts at bay. He seemed to be of the same age as Éomer and was a fireball of energy, walking with a spring in his step and flourishing his speech with many gestures.

"Do you know the history of Meduseld?" he asked as they walked. Well, Éothain walked but she had to nearly jog to keep up. He was almost as tall as Éomer and seemed to take such great strides that one of his steps equaled two of her own.

Her breathing becoming labored, Lothíriel remembered that she had read some legends during her studies in the past six months, but was sure there was more to tell. "I read that it was built by Brego, son of Eorl the Young," she replied.

"Aye," Éothain smiled. "The Éothéod were a wandering people until they settled in Rohan. But Edoras was not their first capital."

"That would be Aldburg, located in the Folde," Lothíriel said, remembering from her readings.

The man smiled wider. "You seem to know our history well, my lady."

Lothíriel shook her head. "I have done some scattered reading here and there, but I only roughly know the histories of Rohan. Unfortunately, Gondorian education is rather lopsided when it comes to the histories of the peoples of Middle-Earth."

The two continued to walk, with Éothain telling her the stories of the kings pictured on the tapestries around Meduseld. Luckily, they had slowed to enjoy the pictures.

"To truly learn about our history, you must be in the open air," he said after the two of them made a round through the Great Hall.

Lothíriel nodded, following the man. As soon as they stepped into the sunlight, Lothíriel thought she saw a change in Éothain. While he had been happy within, he seemed to grow even taller in the open air—truly, a man used to the outdoors. She smiled at the beauty of the afternoon sun and took several deep breaths of the fresh, Rohirrim air.

Moving to the edge of the steps, she looked out over all of Edoras, for Meduseld was built upon a hill and had a view of the entire surrounding village. The Misty Mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks still snowy despite the spring heat. To the north, she could see the green shadow of Fangorn, stretched across the plains of the Westfold; once she might have feared the forests, but stories had come back from the War of the Ring about the alliance with the Ents, specifically of Treebeard, friend to the Halflings Merry and Pippin.

Lothíriel thought that any creature who was friends with the good-natured Halflings she had met at King Elessar's coronation could never be wicked, and therefore, the Ents must be good. Despite the heaviness on her heart, her mood lifted, for the day was beautiful.

In the distance, she could hear sparrows and thrushes singing. Down below, Edoras was bustling with energy, as the village market was at the heart of the city, just a few paces away from the steps of Meduseld. Lothíriel longed to explore the city, to walk amongst it as a villager instead of as a royal.

_Now _this _is the way to build a city,_ she thought. _To have the king right next to his people, so that he can look out his window and see how they are doing_.

She thought back to Dol Amroth, to the walled towers of her home, so distant from rest of the people. It was no wonder there was such rigidity in the caste systems of Gondor; those in ruling positions could never empathize with the peasants simply because they never saw them. If there was famine, if there was plague, the aristocracy was safely stowed away from the dangers of the world in their stone-made havens.

Certainly, King Elessar had tried to make a point of changing that by walking through Minas Tirith almost daily. But with his throne situated at the seventh pinnacle of the city, it took a great effort to see the rest of the city. Here, in Edoras, being among the people was inevitable. To ever step out of Meduseld, one must be confronted, nay, _bombarded _by the city and its culture.

The scent of frying meats, of fresh-picked flowers, of aged cheeses, of ripened fruit, wafted up to her with the wind, and Lothíriel breathed in the smell of Edoras. This was the smell of living, of happiness, of peace.

"It is beautiful, is it not?"

Lothíriel turned to find Éothain next to her, also looking down to the rest of Edoras.

"Yes," she agreed. "Can we go down? The smells are making me hungry." She had begun to notice her stomach rumbling, for the dress fitting had caused her to miss the noon meal.

The man laughed. "Aye. But we may need a few more guards in order to do that. We would not wish for the crowds to overwhelm you."

In the midst of her enthusiasm, Lothíriel had forgotten about safety concerns. Even a crowd that is well meaning can cause unintentional injuries—she would have to be careful, for already, many below had stopped to look up at her.

"Let us first see the stables," Éothain suggested. "I will ask the door warden if he can muster a few men for us, and we can wait for them there."

Lothíriel nodded in agreement, quite liking this young captain of the Mark. He showed her the way to the stables of Meduseld and waved her to go forward while he spoke to one of the burly men guarding the main entrance.

She found her way easily enough from Éothain's directions and the smell of horses. The stables were almost directly behind Meduseld and were nearly just as large as the hall of men. The guard recognized her and quickly let her in, bowing low while he opened the stable doors. Immediately, Lothíriel noticed the difference between the lodgings of the Rohirrim horses and those of Gondorian ones.

The stables were divided into small suites of five or four, though each horse received its own spacious stall. This way, the opening of the stable doors did not disturb the horses should they be sleeping. There was room within each stall for the horse to comfortable move a few paces this way and that, and the smell was somewhat better than she remembered – the Rohirrim did take good care of their steeds.

She briefly wondered where her mare was, but was interrupted when she heard a loud neigh. In one of the stalls closest to the doors, she spotted a tall, white stallion that, intrigued by her entrance had trotted over and stuck its nose over to study her.

She walked over, feeling a bit strange at the uncannily smart eyes that were now trained on her movements. Immediately, the horse began to snuffle her arms and chest, creating a not altogether unpleasant tickling sensation. Laughing, she backed away, holding out her hand to push the stallion's nose from her face.

"Sorry. I have no treats on me," she said, turning out her pockets at her hips. "See? Nothing."

The horse blew out its breath as if to say, _Then what good are you, really? _

"How about tomorrow? I'll bring you a carrot," Lothíriel found herself saying.

The stallion moved its head to the side as if considering. After a moment, it seemed to be unimpressed and turned its tail, stalking off to the back of the stall.

"Oh, come now," she said. "What if I add a lump of sugar?"

It stopped in its tracks and seemed to be considering again. Then, seeming satisfied, it turned back, leaned over the stall and began to munch on her hair. Lothíriel stepped back at this, giving the horse a soft swat on the nose. "Now stop that," she said, throwing her hair back over her shoulder. "I have to get married in two days, and it won't do to have my hair done by a horse."

The horse huffed again.

"Well, you would not be any fun either if you had to get married to someone you barely know." The stallion cocked its head again, interested. "Oh, haven't you heard? I'm marrying Éomer, king of Rohan."

The horse nickered softly at the name, and Lothíriel shook her head. "Oh, look at me. I'm becoming more Rohirrim by the minute. For the Valars' sake, I am talking to a horse!"

The stallion took this opportunity to sneeze on her.

"Ugh!" she cried, drying her face on the sleeve of her dress. "So much for that treat I promised you!" But the horse was neighing already, as if laughing at her.

"I see my lady has become acquainted with Firefoot." Lothíriel looked toward the door of the stable, where Éothain's voice was coming. Seeing the state that she was in, he could not help but choke back a laugh. "Did you insult him?"

Lothíriel muttered that she had said something about talking to a horse as she tried to mat down her hair, as Firefoot had again started chewing on it.

"Firefoot is very proud," the man said. "He descends from a long line of _mearas _from Felaróf himself."

"Felaróf?" she questioned.

Éothain leaned over and patted the horse gently on the neck. Firefoot seemed comfortable around Éothain's presence and sniffed his head, still eyeing Lothíriel.

"He was the horse of Eorl the Young and why we have the _mearas_," the man answered. "Léod, father of Eorl, was a horse tamer and tried to capture a wild white horse when it was but a foal. When he attempted to mount it, the horse threw him and he died. As legend goes, Eorl then hunted down this white horse, but instead of killing it, he said to it, 'Come hither, Mansbane and get a new name!'

"The horse came and Eorl said to it, 'Felaróf I name you,' and demanded from it a _weregild_ for the death of his father. The horse would have to surrender its freedom to him until the end of its life. Eorl then mounted him and rode him without saddle or bridle, as is the way with many _mearas, _though not all. It is said that when a _mearas _chooses a master, they are bound for life, and the horse allows no other man to ride him." At this, he smiled at Firefoot. "As is the way with Firefoot."

"What is a… _weregild_?" Lothíriel asked, rolling the unfamiliar word around in her mouth.

Éothain considered for a moment. "There is no single word for it in the Common Tongue," he answered. "The best way to explain it, perhaps, is a blood debt or blood value." When the woman still looked confused, he explained further. "In times of old, when one man killed another, either by murder or by accident, the family of the dead man demanded a _weregild_ in payment for the death. To avoid a feud, the other man could give the family jewels or gold that was in agreement with the man's value."

Lothíriel furrowed her brow at this explanation. "Were men so disposable as to be treated as property or livestock?"

The man shrugged at this comment. "Those were ancient times, my lady," he said. "Our laws have since changed."

"Not in regards to women."

The words slipped out almost unconsciously. Lothíriel hesitated for a moment, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. But before either she or Éothain could address her comment, Firefoot began to nibble on Lothíriel's hair again.

She pulled back, trying to free it from the horse's big teeth. "Of all the hair you've seen, mine must look the least like straw, so why do you insist on chewing it?" she fumed, pulling harder.

The horse stubbornly continued to chew, forcing her to stand close it in order not to rip out half the hair on her scalp.

Éothain did laugh now, and whispered something to the horse in his own tongue. Lothíriel did not catch it, but Firefoot immediately stopped chewing and backed away into his stall.

"What did you say to him?" she cried, astonished.

"I told him that if continues to chew on his master's bride's hair, Éomer would ban him from oats and apples for a month," the man replied.

Lothíriel's jaw dropped. "This is King Éomer's horse?"

Éothain seemed surprised that she would not know. "Aye. The two of them are inseparable and as alike in mind as if they were brothers."

The woman pursed her lips, thinking of the chances that Firefoot, of all horses, had greeted her when she stepped into the stables. Even though the beast was more stubborn that a dwarf and had the temper of one too, she was starting to like him.

_Him! _Lothíriel scoffed at her thought. Yet strangely, she realized, she did like him more as a human than as a horse.

Just then, the door to the stables opened, revealing, to Lothíriel's surprise, two women dressed in tunics and trousers. By their bearing, however, she could tell that one was a lady and the other her maid; both were carrying saddles, and the maid was also shouldering a bulging sack. They were laughing at something and speaking in Rohirrim before they realized that they were not alone.

"My lady Lothíriel!" one of the women cried, a look of surprise on her face. She curtsied immediately, and Lothíriel followed suit, though she was unsure of the lady's status and dipped a little too low so as not to offend anyone. Unfortunately, she seemed to have guessed too high, and the lady looked incredibly flattered as they both rose. "It is an honor to meet you. My name is Félewyn, and this is my maid, Eordhe." Her eyes turned to Éothain, and she smiled. "My lord Éothain." She curtsied again, and Éothain bowed. "I see you are giving my lady a tour of Meduseld."

Éothain rose from his bow, and Lothíriel saw an extraordinary change, for the easy-going and confident horselord was replaced by a red-faced boy who spluttered but could let out no words.

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow and looked toward Félewyn again, but the lady seemed oblivious to the change—it was her maid that Eordhe who seemed unable to keep a straight face. Eordhe caught her eye and gave her a knowing smile. Lothíriel immediately understood and jumped to the poor man's rescue.

"Yes," she replied. "My lord Éothain has been quite kind. He is very knowledgeable of the histories of Rohan and has graciously been my guide this morning."

The Rohirrim lady smiled once again at Éothain, and Lothíriel thought the man's head would explode if it turned a darker shade of red. "That is wonderful. I would like to welcome you to Edoras again, though I am sure you have heard those words a hundred times. You should come and ride with us and see more of the city. I was just about to exercise Blóstma, my horse."

Lothíriel remembered then that Éothain had asked the doorwarden to assemble a few men to guide her through the city. "Actually, my lord Éothain has asked a few men to accompany me through the city, but I would love to ride with you another time," she answered. "Though, I am sure if you need help with anything, Éothain can assist you." She spoke the last line in Rohirrim, mostly for the benefit of Eordhe, who winked at her—quite sassy for a maid, Lothíriel thought.

"My lady speaks our language well!" Félewyn exclaimed. "But I have ridden Blóstma a thousand times, I'm sure –"

Eordhe suddenly cut in, speaking rapid Rohirrim to her lady, saying that she thought Blóstma had a limp the last time they left her. The lady look confused, but did not contradict her maid. "Well, if that is the case, then we would be grateful if my lord could take a look at Blóstma's hooves. Perhaps there was stone the groom missed last time."

Éothain jumped at the chance, almost running to Blóstma's stall, with Félewyn close behind, actually worried about her steed. Eordhe stayed just for a moment to give Lothíriel a nod of thanks.

"How long has this—" Lothíriel gestured at the two, whispering in Rohirrim "—been going on?"

Eordhe shrugged. "Seems like forever," she answered, before walking toward them.

For the next few minutes, Lothíriel waited next to Firefoot, brushing the horse's mane with a comb that she found in his stall and listening to the bustle that was occurring a few stalls away. "Well, that is a bothersome ordeal," she whispered the stallion. He snorted in agreement. "And I do not wish to belittle Éothain's problems, but he really should just tell her his feelings."

Firefoot snorted again, this time in mirth.

"Well, yes, there is that small hiccup of him turning into a tomato every time she smiles at him," she agreed. The horse neighed again. "But it did not appear that Félewyn noticed anything amiss." The horse suddenly stepped forward, nudging her backwards, toward the other horse's stall.

Lothíriel crossed her arms. "Oh no! I am _not _meddling," she said, walking back toward Firefoot. "I have enough of my own problems, thank you very much." But the horse stubbornly pushed her back again.

Before the woman could think of what to do, Félewyn emerged from Blóstma's stall, leading the mare by the reins, looking a little embarrassed. Eordhe was behind her, holding the reins of another horse, and last of all was Éothain, grinning foolishly from ear to ear.

"Is Blóstma alright?" Lothíriel asked.

"Yes," Félewyn answered, smoothing her mare's mane. "She was perfectly alright, though Éothain did find a small stone in her back left hoof." She smiled again, back at the captain, and Lothíriel thought the man would run up and kiss the woman right then. Thankfully, Éothain kept his composure. "Well, it is time we exercised her," Félewyn said, gesturing toward her horse. "It was wonderful meeting you, my lady. And please do join us for a ride some time."

She and Eordhe left the stables, their horses clopping along, their tails swishing.

Looking over at Éothain, Lothíriel thought that he wanted nothing more than to join them. Suddenly, she felt a pushing at her back, and realized that Firefoot had not given up his noble pursuit of getting her to meddle. She blew out a breath of air before realizing just how horse-like that action had been.

"Do you like her?" she ventured, feeling a bit awkward.

The man's head whipped around, a look of panic in his eyes that he immediately tried to hide. "Do you mean Félewyn, my lady?" his mock innocence was so bad that Lothíriel had to hold in her laughter. It was indeed true that the Rohirrim do not lie, for Éothain looked like a boy that had been caught with hand in the biscuit jar.

_No, I mean her horse_, she thought to herself sarcastically in her best Amrothos voice. "I caught you looking at her," she said, playing along. "She is very beautiful."

Éothain opened his mouth to lie once more, but caught himself when Lothíriel raised her eyebrow in his direction. "Is it really that apparent?"

"Aye," she said, this time realizing she was now picking up a few Rohirrim mannerisms. "Indeed, I find it a wonder that she does not know. Why do you not tell her?"

At the thought, Éothain looked terrified. "Please, I beg you!" he urged. "Do not breathe a word of it, my lady."

The desperation in his voice caught her off guard, and Lothíriel stepped back before composing herself. "Of course not," she said. "I would not reveal your secret, Éothain, but why not let her know?"

The man's jaw hardened. "I cannot for she is a great lady, and I am but a captain of the Mark. She would find me too crass and uncouth. She is fit to marry a prince, not a man as myself."

Lothíriel wanted to knock him upside the head so he would see sense. Instead, she tried her best to seem sympathetic. "From the little I know of you, Éothain, you are not at all crass and uncouth." At this, the man looked at his feet, uncomfortable.

"Alas, I am not a match for her, my lady," he said. "Unlike you and my lord Éomer, who seem perfect for one another."

Lothíriel stiffened at this, clenching her teeth.

But she did not have to come up with a reply, for as soon as he spoke those words, another man appeared at the doors of the stables. Lothíriel shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun streaming through and found that the man, too, was wearing the symbol of Eorl the Young upon his chest.

"Famon," Éothain greeted the man. "How goes?"

The man made a hasty bow at his captain and a much deeper one at Lothíriel. "Forgive me, my lord and lady," he said. His Common was good, but it was less fluid and more guttural than Éothain's. "My lord Imrahil requires the lady Lothíriel's presence in the council room immediately."

* * *

_A/N: _Thanks for reading! Please review.

Also, as a side note about Lothy: other people's problems so easily solved, don't they? :P


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Tale-tellers… **

* * *

_Letter writing is a form of self-censorship. In one sense, it is the closest a man can ever come to experiencing the conscience of a lady, and yet, he must always be left wondering how much is left out. _

_-The Book of Manners for Highborn Ladies _

Vanimaël of Dol Amroth

* * *

She was still smarting from Éothain's well-meaning comment when she stepped into the council room and sensed the tension in the air. The large room, normally reserved for the king and his many council members, now only contained herself, her father, Erchirion, Éowyn and Éomer.

The king of Rohan was stationed at the head of a long, wooden table, his hands folded before him. One would have mistaken his pose for that of an obedient schoolboy had they not seen the deep concentration that was in his eyes. His sister did not sit, but paced beside him, her hands clasped behind her back and her blue gown billowing out behind her like a cloud.

Erchirion and Imrahil occupied the two seats to the left and right of the king.

Upon her entrance, the men stood, and the king bowed, tight-lipped.

Before she could ask why she had been summoned, her fathered beckoned her to his side with a wave of his hand. "It is good you are here, Lothíriel," he said, his voice stiff with propriety. "We have much to discuss."

This was a tone she was used to hearing whenever her father was in public, but this time, his voice was tinged with a note of something else. She glanced at his eyes once, trying to understand, but fearing the king and his sister noticing, she only nodded and went to stand next to Imrahil.

"My lord Éomer and lady Éowyn," he began, his voice apologetic and diplomatic. "I am sorry to bring you here in such haste. I know that you have other duties to attend to, and had I not thought this matter of utmost importance, I would not have bothered you."

The siblings were silent, both stony-faced, as if aware of some form of bad news.

Prince Imrahil paused to take a breath before his next line. "Erchirion has made me aware of Lothíriel's current situation, and I apologize for not seeing it sooner." At this, Lothíriel's eyes went to her father, her eyebrows furrowed.

_What could he possibly be saying_?

She noticed through the corner of her eye that Éomer was leaning forward in his seat; it was only a slight tilt of his body, but the tick in his jaw showed that he was waiting with anticipation.

"I can offer you more apologies and pretty words, but I am afraid what is to be said must be said, and so I will be brief but honest," Imrahil continued. Lothíriel braced herself and glanced at her brother, wondering what it was that he had brought to their father's attention about herself.

To her surprise, Erchirion would not meet her eye, but shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His hands were beneath the table, and she thought perhaps he was sitting on them.

_Why so guilty? _

Suddenly, the memory of this morning's conversation crashed down on her. Erchirion's concerned expression when she had told him of her feelings flashed before her eyes, and she turned to her father in horror, ready to jump in to interrupt the words that she knew were to come from his mouth.

But her tongue grew large and thick in her mouth and her throat seemed to close, allowing no air to enter her lungs. Her body, too, was frozen in place, and she stood like a statue, her hands calmly at her sides and her feet planted as her father said, "With all due respect, the marriage cannot occur."

Lothíriel heard no more. It was as if she were standing at the cliffs of Dol Amroth, the waves of the sea crashing around her, drowning out the voices of her father and brother, who seemed desperate to explain the situation. She could only hear noise but could make no sense of it, and her mind seemed to shut off, letting the world go on without her.

Finally, she glanced up and looked straight into Éomer's piercing brown eyes. She could not read what she saw there.

Pain? Relief? Expectation?

The next moment, he was no longer looking at her but opening his mouth to speak. Lothíriel did not hear those words either, but he spoke calmly and did not seem angry. Her father, next to her, let his shoulders drop, and she sensed that he unclenched his fists, relieved; so she assumed that Éomer was agreeing.

Indeed, when she looked up again, she thought she caught a hint of a smile grace the horselord's lips. He nodded a few times, then stood, excusing himself. Within a moment, he was gone from the room.

Lothíriel's mind still had not fully come back to reality, but she realized that she should have been happy.

_This is what you have been wanting since the day you accepted his proposal, is it not? _a small voice said to her. _You have been dreading the wedding, and you have already made a bad impression on Éomer. He could never want you for a wife now. _

And yet…

Why was there an ache in her chest that was now spreading to her belly? Why did the pit of her stomach suddenly feel cold, as if she had just swallowed a cube of ice?

And now, everyone was rising. Her brother brushed past her as if he was trying to escape speaking with her, and she let him go. Her father was saying something to her now, and she nodded, pulling on her best smile.

All the time, her mind was playing the same words over and over, almost as if taunting her. _This is what you wanted. This is what you wanted. _

Was it not?

Her mind went back to this morning, when she was greeting the people of Edoras. Her words had promised change for the better. They were expecting her to be their queen, and they were expecting change. Now, they would never see her as queen.

She was not sure whether she was relieved or not.

Then, she thought of Éothain and the smell of the market outside of Meduseld. The bright sunlight and the bustling noises, all just a stone's throw from her window here—that was the way to build a city. She had told herself that while standing on the steps of the great hall, looking down. She had never before felt so close to the people, as one of them instead of an aristocrat, forever hidden away in her tower.

Edoras matched her personality, and most of all, it brought back memories from her childhood. When she had been young, her mother usually took her into the markets of Dol Amroth to shop for the daily needs of the castle and their family.

"Why do you always go to the dress shop at the corner of the fish market?" she had once asked her mother. "It stinks! Father always has his clothes delivered directly to him."

Her mother had answered her question with one of her own. "Who sets the fashions for our court, Lothíriel?" she had asked.

"You do," Lothíriel had answered without hesitation. She had only been ten at the time, skinny as a rail and was nothing but arms and legs. Her hair was always unruly, and she envied her mother her long, graceful body and shiny black hair that always remained in place. Her mother had been the most beautiful woman at court in her eyes and was, of course, the one who determined whether hemlines were high this year of if buttons or ties were to be used for dresses this season.

"And if the ladies of the court see me buying my cloth here, what do you think they will do?"

Lothíriel considered, wrinkling her nose at the memory of the fishy smell that pervaded the dressmaker's shop. "I suppose they, too, will want to buy cloth there."

Her mother nodded. "And how does that affect the dressmaker?"

"She makes a lot of money," Lothíriel answered. "But how does that affect us?"

Her mother had smiled at this. "When you rule a city, my love, you cannot only think of yourself. You must always be thinking of others, of the economy, the safety, and the overall atmosphere of your city." All this was being said on the way to the dressmaker, and therefore, Lothíriel had only been able to catch snatches of her mother's words as they walked through the busy streets.

"You see, if I personally go to the dressmaker, I show her that I care about her livelihood, and at the same time, I bring in more business for her. If I do that at twenty places, then that is twenty more businesses that will flourish," she had answered her.

Later, she had added, "Your people must see you, Lothíriel. You cannot hide from them, or you will never get to know them and they will never get to know you. That breeds mistrust."

_Éomer must be close to his people_, she could not help but think.

With that, she also remembered the stories of the kings of old, from Eorl to Théoden, that she had read on her own and heard from the young captain of the Mark. And Firefoot, that stubborn horse that was of the line of Felaróf himself, that loved to chew her hair. He had a personality of his own was probably more intelligent than many of the men she had met in her life.

Though she had almost been determined to hate Rohan, she had found that she was beginning to love Edoras after just one day.

_Valar damn it! _she scolded herself. But before she could find more abuses, she was woken from her reverie by another voice.

"You are the strangest woman I have ever met."

Lothíriel looked up and found that she and Éowyn were the only two people left in the council room. The other woman was staring at her unabashedly, but instead of the cold glare that she had gotten just this morning, Éowyn seemed now to be considering her, her expression curious, but not invasive.

It was strange to look into Éowyn's face, for she could immediately see the resemblance to her brother. They both had strong brows and straight noses, but Éowyn had a different chin and mouth. Her jaw was well defined but small, and her lips were thinner than her brother's.

Her eyes, too, were different—a stony sea gray instead of Éomer's brown. Lothíriel found herself wondering if Éowyn took after their mother and Éomer their father.

"I do not know whether to hug you or hit you," the other woman continued. "In fact, I just might do both." At Lothíriel's start, she snorted in an unladylike fashion. "I do not think we have formally met. I am Éowyn, sister to the king."

Lothíriel bit her lower lip. "Shieldmaiden of Rohan," she could not help but let slip.

To her surprise, Éowyn laughed at this, though there was a harshness there that indicated she did not feel mirth. "Aye, I suppose I am better known by that name," she answered. "But come, come. What is your game? Who are you, really, and where have you been hiding?"

When the other woman could not find the words to answer, Éowyn grew impatient. "Come now. Do not act stupid. I know that many Gondorian women think that it is desirable to appear daft when they are around men, but we both know you are not that type."

Lothíriel finally found her voice. "How do you know I am not that type?" she countered, wondering at this woman's brash affront on her character. She had never even spoken to the woman, and yet, Éowyn seemed to have her personality pre-determined, wrapped up neatly with a bow.

The other woman considered this for a moment and then shrugged, as if to acknowledge that it was odd that she knew so much about a person with whom she had never talked. "To be fair, I thought you were at first," she answered. "By that, I mean a ninny, which most Gondorian women are."

She paused. "Ah, sorry. But it is the truth. I have not met many Gondorian women with sense, and it is quite refreshing when I do meet one," she continued. "Besides, I did think that you wanted to marry my brother at first, and that was when I knew you had barely spoken three words to him. Most women who get into that kind of marriage _are_ daft, so you will have to forgive me for not warming to you at first."

Lothíriel was now thoroughly confused and wondering whether or not she should be angry with this woman. She was sure Éowyn had just insulted all the women of Gondor, but strangely, she did not feel offended at all. "Forgive me," she finally said. "But how do you know I am not a…" she used Éowyn's word "… a 'ninny'? We have never spoken until now, and I cannot say I know anything at all about you."

She would never have been so bold with a lady of a Gondorian court, but to-the-point and brazen seemed to be the way to deal with Éowyn.

"Well, first of all, I heard about your ordeal with the Orcs yesterday," she said.

At the mention of the attack the day before, Lothíriel's hand throbbed, reminding her of her wound. She let out a long breath—it was as if yesterday had been ages ago, but that was perhaps just her mind attempting to cope with the shock of encountering an Orc band.

"Knowing how to use a weapon is always smart. Those without swords can still die by them," Éowyn said. "Then there was this morning, when you slipped that line in your speech about change for the better. Very clever, I must say. You were thinking about how you can influence the land you were marrying into, and even though it is bold, I admire that you were not about to sit prettily and let Éomer do all the ruling.

"Now, finally this. You actually voiced your own opinions about not wanting to marry my brother, though why you waited until now to do so, I shall never guess." She paused again, almost as if studying Lothíriel. "Aye, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, you have some mettle in you, and you know how to deal with men. That is the reason I want to hug you; we need more women like you in this world to deal with the stupidity of some people."

Lothíriel felt almost as if she had to take a deep breath in order to digest everything the woman had just said. It was obvious that Éowyn had been studying her the moment she stepped into Meduseld. "And why would you want to hit me?"

At this, the other woman's eyes turned dark, the sea within them becoming stormy. "As much as I admire your courage for stopping this wedding, Éomer is still my brother," she said slowly. "I thought you Gondorians were famous for your tact, and yet, you handled that about as well as any bumbling idiot."

Lothíriel did now take a deep breath. "You do not understand."

The other woman almost rolled her eyes at her. "What do you mean I do not understand? You did not wish to marry my brother, but I suppose you accepted at first because your father wished for the alliance opportunity. When the time came, however, you realized you could not go through with the arrangements and decided to call the whole thing off."

Lothíriel felt true anger rising within her now. "Just a minute," she said through clenched teeth. "You do not know anything of the matter, and I would appreciate you not belittling this situation with your guesses."

"Oh? So I know nothing?" Éowyn's hands had now come to rest her hips, and her pretty face was becoming red. In comparison, her fair hair seemed to pale with the rising color of her cheeks. "Then kindly explain, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

Lothíriel folded her arms before her, staring down the other woman, though Éowyn was a hand taller than she was. "Yes, my father wished for the marriage to take place, and yes, I was not completely for it, but I did not tell my father to stop the wedding. That was entirely my brother's doing, and, come to think of it, I will be giving him a piece of my mind very soon."

Éowyn threw up her hands, her face positively the color of a beet now. "Aye, surely you are jesting? 'Not completely for it'? This is marriage, not a proposal to increase trade! Did you not think to let Éomer know that you were 'not completely for it' when you were exchanging letters for the past six months? Instead of springing this business two days before the wedding and breaking his heart?"

The other woman, too, was now livid. "Your brother did not exactly seem to be the understanding type when we were corresponding," she almost spat. "Indeed, it was difficult to find out exactly what type of man he was from the half-page notes that seemed so painful to pen."

Lothíriel stopped then, realizing what Éowyn had just said.

"Wait, what do you mean break his heart?" she asked.

At the same time, Éowyn asked incredulously, "What do you mean half-page notes?"

The two stopped speaking, staring at one another.

Then, "He was in love with you!" the Rohirrim woman cried. "How could you not know?"

Lothíriel's mouth went dry, and her heart leaped uncomfortable in her chest.

Yes, he had said last night that he had fallen in love, but had he meant that? Or had he merely been his charming, lady-killer self? "At least, he fell in love with the woman in those letters," Éowyn continued, her voice bitter. "Now what do you mean half-page notes?"

Lothíriel barely found her voice in time, though she was still not satisfied by Éowyn's answer to her own question. However, she no longer had the energy to be angry. "I mean exactly that. I only received letters that were at most half a page long. Éomer never spoke about anything other than what was necessary."

The other woman narrowed her eyes and folded her arms as well. "That cannot be. I was here the month before you arrived, and I remember him agonizing over those letters. There were pages upon pages at his desk. I jested with him that the messenger would kill his horse, hauling that to Dol Amroth. This does not make sense."

There was another lull between them.

Then, "Bema, if he has done what I think he has done, I am going to kill him," Éowyn muttered under her breath.

"What? Who?" Lothíriel questioned, beginning to grow tired of Éowyn's manner.

"Éomer, who else?" the other woman cried. "Come on! Let us hope he is not as big of an idiot as I think he is."


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**… and Letter-Writers**

* * *

_The letter that you'll never send is the truest one you'll ever pen._

- Old Gondorian proverb

* * *

Before she knew what she was doing, Lothíriel was wheeling through the maze-like halls of Meduseld, seemingly pulled along by the sheer will of Éowyn. She wondered, not for the last time, how she would ever find her way about, but that thought was occluded by the thousands of others floating around in her mind.

_Éomer is in love with me! _For some reason, that made her wildly happy, and each time she thought that, she could feel blood rise to her cheeks.

_You fool. Stop being a schoolgirl. _Yes, that was it. She was not happy because she returned Éomer's favor; it was merely the affirmation, that someone, _anyone_, found her desirable. It was nice to feel wanted—this was how she had felt in her teens whenever a man in court smiled at her, was it not?

_What about those notes_? Yes, what _had_ Éowyn meant when she said Éomer had taken hours to write her letters? The ones she had received must not have taken more than a few moments to pen. So what really was going on?

_And what in the world are you going to do with Éowyn? _The woman was incredibly astute and seemed to have learned more about Lothíriel than Lothíriel knew about herself. What more was she hiding from her? If she did end up marrying into their family, she knew she would never be able to keep any secrets from this woman.

Before she could start to answer any of these questions, Lothíriel found that Éowyn had stopped; the two of them were standing before a large, finely-made wooden door. Lothíriel had the sense to look about her, and she realized that she was not so far away from her own room, by the look of the tapestries.

Indeed, she was sure her own room was only just down the hall, but before she could make sure, Éowyn grabbed her by the hand and jerked her attention to the door again. The Rohirrim woman rummaged through her skirts before coming up with a small, silver key.

"Um…" Lothíriel was afraid to ask anything of the woman. "Where are we?"

Éowyn gave her an impatient look before putting the key into small keyhole at the right-hand side of the door and turning it. "The king's chambers, of course. Where else?"

Lothíriel's breath came short, and Éowyn saw the change in her expression. "We are not breaking in, silly. Éomer always allows me into his chambers. It is why I have a key."

Of course.

Despite their striking similarity, Lothíriel still found it a bit hard to believe that the two were related and most likely had a close relationship. She found herself wondering how sibling conversations went between Éowyn and Éomer before she realized once again how close Éomer's chambers were to her own.

It made sense, now, how he had been able to slip into her room without anyone noticing his absence—he had only had to walk a few paces. The next thought jarred her completely: _The reason your room is so close is because you were given the Queen's chambers_.

She was not able to dwell on that thought, however, because Éowyn had pushed open the door and was now pulling her in with her. Lothíriel did not resist, realizing that she was more than a little curious as to what Éowyn held in store for her. Once they stood in the middle of the chamber, however, Éowyn left her side and began to rummage at the large, oaken desk that was placed at the corner of the room.

Lothíriel glanced around her and found herself in a room that was much larger than her own. The centerpiece was a giant, four-poster bed with deep, forest green curtains that were currently drawn. Directly across from the door were large windows that also served as doors; beyond was a small balcony that overlooked the courtyard beneath. They, too, had forest green curtains, but these were thrown open to allow the sunlight in.

The wall to the left of the balcony contained a large fireplace. Two chairs sat before it, along with a small table that could be used to hold a beverage or simply to put one's feet up when sitting before the fire.

Éowyn was in the corner, now, between the balcony and the fireplace, pulling open drawers and leafing through pages. Lothíriel immediately felt uncomfortable; she was close to her brothers, but she could never imagine herself going through any of their desks, looking at their notes and letters.

But before she could say anything, the other woman gave a cry of triumph. "Ha! Here they are. I knew he kept them!"

After a brief moment of indecision, Lothíriel found that her curiosity overwhelmed her sense of propriety, and she moved closer to Éowyn. "What? What is it?"

The woman handed a thick stack of parchment to her. All the pages had been scrawled over with a rounded hand, written neatly but in such a way that they left no margins. In more than one place, there were large, blacked out places where the writer had decided whatever he had written was unfit to be read. Here and there, Lothíriel could also see cramped versions of the same hand adding a comment or two.

Éowyn looked at her with a glow in her grey eyes. "These are Éomer's _real _letters."

* * *

He needed to ride.

He had to be in the open field, for within Meduseld, he was feeling suffocated, not only by the walls, but by the people within. Why was it that Gondorians always insisted on _crowding_?

It was a habit he had observed in Imrahil and many others of the Gondorian court when he had been in Minas Tirith. They liked to walk too close to each other, stand too close to each other, but they hardly ever made any real contact.

There was no comfort from the act of one man touching another. Instead, there was just _crowding_.

Éomer burst through the back doors of the great hall, startling the guards without. He was breathing hard, he realized, but he paid no attention to the doorwarden that came up to ask about his wellbeing.

He needed to get to the stables.

He made the short trek even shorter by almost running to the familiar doors that he pushed open with one hand. The already ajar doors to the stables swung outward with a bang, but Éomer also ignored the few protesting neighs that rose up from the horses.

He stormed towards Firefoot's stall, only to find his normal position before the horse's stall already occupied. He gave a silent curse that included Bema, his wife, his bow, and would possibly have included all the Mark if the occupant had not spoken.

"Ic i hálette Éomer Cyning!" (**I hail thee, Éomer King.**) Éothain greeted him in their own tongue, his wry smile giving away his sarcasm at the phrase. It was only after the other man spoke that Éomer realized his ears were ringing and his chest was tight.

He stopped to breathe, trying to clear his head. The ringing stopped, but the tightness across his chest persisted. "I have been keeping Firefoot company," Éothain continued. It was a moment before he noticed the stormy expression on the king's face. Trying to keep the mood between them light, he added, "Is the groom getting cold feet?"

After hesitating a moment and stepping up to Firefoot, Éomer decided to confide in his friend. "There can be no groom without a wedding."

A few expressions crossed the other man's face before the light of realization came to him. Firefoot walked up to be petted, but stepped back again at the silence between the two men, tossing his head. "Why is there no wedding?"

Éomer leaned over the frame of the stall, running his hands over his face and through his hair. "The Lady Lothíriel did not think it a good idea for two strangers to be joined in this way."

Now Firefoot did walk up, snuffling at the man's face, his soft mouth and nose a slight comfort to the aching in his chest. He petted the horse's neck, welcoming the gesture, and went to find a carrot, but realized that he was still dressed in the formal attire from this morning and did not have one.

Éothain was quiet for a moment, before putting a hand on the other man's shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend." He was one of the few people who had seen Éomer pour over each letter that the princess had sent and guessed that the king's feelings for the Lady Lothíriel were more than that of a mildly interested suitor who had an eye on her father's purse strings.

If a messenger ever delivered a letter from the princess during court, Éomer always became fidgety, and Éothain knew he wished nothing more than for court to be over so he could be alone. The changes were subtle, and no one that was not close to him would have noticed them, but Éothain could read the frequent chin rubs, the drumming of his fingers.

The man gave a small smile, remembering Éomer from before the War; he had had to change much to become the king he was today. He had always been a passionate man, going where his heart led him and would never have married for political power or money, but the state of the Mark had forced him to propose to Imrahil's daughter.

"I proposed to her for the dowry," Éomer said, as if echoing Éothain's thoughts. At this, the king put his face in his hands again. Firefoot nudged his cheek, but the man did not look up.

Most of the Westemnet had been ravaged by the Urûk-Hai, the abominable creations of Saruman, and even now, were still recovering. The farms had not been able to produce the necessary amount of food to feed his people for the past few years, and he had been supporting them with the grain stores left from Théoden's rule.

Those had been scarce because of mismanagement by Wormtongue, and even with help from Gondor, those stores were nearly empty. If the harvest this fall was still as bad as the past few, his people would starve. Aragorn could not support Rohan as well as Gondor; much of Gondor's own lands had been burned and made inhabitable, and Éomer had hated being a beggar.

It was why he had sprung at the opportunity when Imrahil had hinted that he had an eligible daughter; this marriage would have sealed the friendship between Rohan and Dol Amroth, and Imrahil was throwing in a sizable dowry for the hand of his only daughter. With it, he would have been able to purchase enough grain to last his people at least through the winter.

Then they could continue to rebuild and try again.

"And you still wish to marry her for the money?" Éothain prodded gently.

"No." The answer was automatic, coming out of his mouth before Éomer could control it. The way that Lothíriel had written to him, as if baring her soul, had changed that.

"Have you already stopped the wedding proceedings?" the other man asked.

Éomer gave a groan. Of course. Imrahil and the rest were probably expecting him to deal with all of that mess. "No." He stayed with his hands in his face for a moment more before straightening, knowing his duty.

But Éothain put out his arm to stop him. "Do not just yet," he said. "Have you spoken with the lady since she called off the wedding?"

The king let out a sigh. "No, and I suspect that is a good thing. She could hardly stand me the first time we spoke," he said, remembering how standoffish she had been when they had ridden into Edoras. He had thought that she was just shy, but the way that she had battled him in her room was all he needed to know that she would never be happy with him. He had mistook her tone for banter at first, but when she outright rejected him, he had understood. Was he really so repulsive to her?

The expression on Éothain's expression was grim, but his eyes were kind. "Do not make public that the wedding will not occur just yet," he said. "Wait a day, at least. It is only a few days before the wedding, and perhaps she panicked at the thought of marrying."

Éomer blew out his breath. "This is not just cold feet, Éothain. She cannot bear to even be around me."

The other man shrugged. "All the same, will you not at least wait a day? Everything is already prepared anyway. It is not as if you are stopping anyone from their work."

The king relented, relaxing his shoulders. "If you say so, 'Thain." With a last pat to Firefoot, he turned to leave the stables.

"Where are you going?" Éothain questioned.

"Riding," Éomer replied. "But I can hardly do so in these clothes. I must go to my chambers and change. Keep Firefoot company a bit longer, if you wish."

* * *

_A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for the reviews, especially those that are helping me improve this story. _

_A couple of things that I have changed so far: _

_1) In Chapter 3, I clearly stated that it was March at the beginning of the chapter, but progressed to say that it was summer in the rest of the story. I've changed the timeframe of the story, therefore, back to spring, as it should be! _

_2) There were a few anachronisms here and there that I have changed (thanks, Deandra!). They include changing things like "cubes of ice" to "chunks of ice," etc._

_Once again, please continue to review. I enjoy reading your feedback, and I'm always seeking to improve my writing! _


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**A Duty and a Dowry**

* * *

"These are Éomer's _real _letters."

Lothíriel looked down once more at the pieces of parchment, and one last doubt crossed her mind. _There was a reason Éomer never sent them. _But her curiosity was too great; she squared her shoulders and began to read the page before her, written in the king's large, neat hand.

This particular piece of parchment had so many blacked out portions and sentences inserted between each line that she could barely read it, but she made out the following:

* * *

_My dear Lothíriel,_

_It gladdens me to know that you have begun to learn our tongue. Your portion of the letter in Rohirric shows your effort, which I greatly admire, though it was also a bit amusing. When using the verb "to increase" or "to accumulate," we generally use __**œtflówan; éacian **__has the connotation of "to become pregnant" or "to conceive," which makes your sentence, "My father has accumulated a stable of horses from Rohan," a bit comical. _

_But in all seriousness, Lothíriel, I am happy that you are doing this. I know you said that you dreamed of working at the Houses of Healing, but Edoras, too, has a great need for your help. The war has left many of the old and sick without sons to care for them, and to have a queen that can also nurture our people would do wonders for their morale._

* * *

Here, there were several lines crossed out so severely that Lothíriel could not make out the words. She was forced to continue reading nearly a quarter of the way down the page.

* * *

_…you may have doubts, but I can assure you that while your life may be different, you will be happy in Edoras. You can visit your family as often as you like, and I will help you in any way I can. I will make you happy, as you have made me with your letters. Lothíriel, I cannot tell you how much I look forward to receiving them—they are like small windows of light in the darkness that I must face every day. _

_You must wonder what that means. _

_I now have to confess something that has been on my mind, and you should know about this before we are married (though I think perhaps you already suspect it). _

_My intentions upon asking for your hand were not pure. When your father told me that he had an unmarried daughter, I proposed immediately, not because I remembered you from your brief visit to Edoras or when I saw you in Minas Tirith during King Elessar's wedding, but because I was thinking of your dowry. _

_Now for the part that you could not have guessed. _

_Rohan was, for a long time, under the rule of Gríma Wormtongue, who had been poisoning my uncle with his words. Because of him, our country had been in debt even before the war. Once Saruman began attacking our people, we could barely sustain ourselves, and during that time, much of the Westfold was burned and the farms of the Westemnet were scoured by Wildmen and Orcs. _

_Even now, after much rebuilding, we must send aid to those people, and the stores of Edoras are growing thin. I looked at your dowry as a way to buy my people the food they need for this coming winter so that they will not starve. _

_No one knows of the extent of Rohan's need except myself and a few advisors. Even my sister does not know the full details of what has occurred because of her long absence in Ithilien. _

_You must be shocked. _

_Instead of a king of men, you are marrying a penniless beggar, for that is what I am. If you wish to stop this marriage now, you have every right to, and I fully expect you to once you read this letter, which is why I will never send it. _

_And yet I wish that you would not. I wish that you would accept me despite reading everything penned here, despite knowing that I have nothing to offer you except my love and my dedication to making you happy._

* * *

The letter ended there.

Lothíriel turned the parchment over, scanned the page after, but there was nothing more to it, not even a signature or a closing. Shakily, she put the page down and looked up to find Éowyn staring at her.

The two said nothing for some time, both studying the other, and their silence was only broken by a loud sniff from Lothíriel. She realized, then, that tears had come to her eyes and her nose was running. Quickly, she looked away, brushing her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Have you read this?" she asked Éowyn, trying to draw attention away from her moment of weakness.

The other woman shook her head. "Nay, but I saw Éomer writing them at times," she answered. Her voice was not solemn, without any hint of the annoyance that she had possessed for the princess from before. She looked down once at her hands—it was the first time that Lothíriel sensed vulnerability and gentleness in her.

When she looked up again, her eyes were sad. "And I will not read them now. They are for your eyes, not mine."

The princess looked down at the letters in her hands once more. The one that she had read was only one page out of many. She could have stood there all day and read them, but she realized that being in the middle of the king's chambers without his knowledge was not wise, especially now that she knew why he had never sent these letters. "What should I do with them?"

Éowyn shrugged. "Do as you like. Take them, read them, throw them in the fire. They were supposed to be sent to you."

Lothíriel shook her head. "No. They do not belong to me. Éomer never intended to send them. They were his private thoughts," she said. More realization dawned on her as she continued to speak. "I was just an excuse for him to write them down. I think it was a way for him to let out his feelings. Besides, what would he say when he finds that they are gone?"

The other woman stepped forward and put a hand on Lothíriel's shoulders. Lothíriel had a strange sensation, as she looked into Éowyn's eyes, of tenderness, even though up until now, Éowyn had shown her nothing but harshness. She wanted more than anything to reach out and embrace her.

_Was this what it is like to have a sister? _she found herself wondering.

"Take them," Éowyn said. "They were addressed to you." She smiled now. "I think, in the end, both you and he will find comfort in the fact that you know his thoughts."

* * *

This was why Lothíriel found herself alone with the letters, in her chambers, just a few minutes later. She stared at the pile, trying to bring herself to read another, but she remembered the emotions, the turmoil that had been stirred up in her from reading just one.

_He wanted to marry you for your dowry_.

And yet, she could find no anger at that thought. Éomer had made it clear that that was the reason he proposed, but in his letter, she knew that it was no longer the sole reason. _Just as he had said last night_, another voice said, and a pang of regret went through her chest. He really had laid bare his feelings, and she had only been concerned about his short letters.

She couldn't not marry him.

Not now that she knew the reason he needed her dowry. If anything, it was a much more honorable way to use the money than anything else she could think of. Certainly, neither she nor her father needed it piled up somewhere in Dol Amroth, which had barely been touched by the war and was already flourishing so soon after because of their ports.

But helping Rohan was not the sole reason for her decision now, either.

Éomer was completely different from the man that she had envisioned.

For the past six months, she had thought him unfeeling and cold. Just yesterday, she found him forward and completely frustrating. And now…

He was so much more complex than she could ever imagine. The way that he had written to her, referring to the minute details of her letters and reading between the lines to understand that ultimately, she was scared of leaving her family, marrying someone she barely knew, and living in a land where she did not speak the language.

He had almost read her thoughts, and he truly cared for her. Most of all, he had deferred her own decisions to _her_, something even her brothers and father did not do. They had made the decision for her to marry, and now, despite their good intentions for her happiness, they had also made the decision to call off the wedding.

But Éomer had wanted her to do what she wanted – to be a healer.

Her heart went out to the man. How she desperately wanted to know him better! But how could he have expected her to return his feelings if she had never gotten to know him?

She knew then her decision, and with that, she left the letters on the bed and stepped out of her room.

* * *

Imrahil answered his door just a few moments after her knock. While she had never been formally told where her father or her brothers were staying, it was an easy enough thing to ask the servants, and she had found his chamber soon enough.

"Lothíriel," he said, surprised. "What has happened? Are you alright?"

It was only at her father's concern that she realized that her face still showed traces of her tears, and was probably red and puffy, the way it always became after she cried.

"I am fine, Father," she said slowly. "May I come in? I need to speak to you."

He nodded and opened the door wider, allowing her to enter. "Yes, of course," he answered. "I need to speak to you as well."

She took a deep breath, entering the large chamber that contained both a bed and a small seating area, with a round table and three chairs by the fireplace. The table held a few odds and ends that Imrahil had been working with, including a quill and a large map of Gondor and Rohan. She walked toward the table, then hesitated, and decided not to sit.

"Is it about the wedding?" she asked, her back turned.

"What else?" came Imrahil's voice, tinged with a hint of sarcasm that was not unkind.

"May I say something first?" she asked, her voice low, as she turned to face him. He met her eyes and nodded once. She gazed at him, remembering how she used to never be able to hold his stare when she was a girl. He had always been a stern man and a strict parent, though she did not doubt for a moment that he loved her.

But she had always been closer to her mother as a girl, and when she had died, Lothíriel had found it difficult to express herself to Imrahil, a man who seemed to be the complete opposite of his gentle, soft-spoken wife. Since Elphir was twelve years her senior, he had taken the role of mothering her when their father was too busy.

Which was always.

"Erchirion should not have done what he did today," she said, her hands at her side. "And you should not have listened to him."

At this, her father gave out a sigh and sat down in one of the chairs, putting his elbows on the table and folding his hands before him. His shoulders, Lothíriel saw, were tense.

Though Imrahil was not an old man, she could see the lines that were starting to creep up near his eyes and set in around his mouth. His hair was beginning to gray around his temples, and while he still had the same trim figure he had kept his entire life, his jowls had begun to droop.

"Lothíriel," he began, his voice heavy, as if it were carrying a great weight. "What is that you want? Since the moment that Éomer proposed, you did not want this marriage to occur."

He held up a hand to silence her when she opened her mouth to object. "It is true. I know my own daughter, and you did not want to marry the man, but I told myself that this was my way of taking care of you. Elphir will eventually inherit my title. Erchirion and Amrothos will become leaders of the Swan Knights. But what of you? What can I give to you to ensure your future happiness but a name and a dowry?"

Lothíriel could not have spoken now if she knew what to say.

"I wish your mother were here," he said, and she froze. She had not heard her father mention her mother since the day she died. Whenever someone else did, Imrahil always quickly changed the subject or left the conversation. "She would know what to do. She always did, with you."

Lothíriel closed her eyes for a moment, willing back the tears. Her father had wanted what was best for her, which, in his eyes, was a marriage, and a marriage to a king no less. Instead of seeing that, she had been petulant and ungrateful.

"Have you or Erchirion told anyone else about what happened today?" she asked, willing her voice to be steady.

Imrahil rubbed the area over the bridge of his nose. "No, not yet. We were hoping that Éomer would deal with that."

At the mention of the king's name, her heart leaped wildly in her chest, and she had to swallow a few mouthfuls of air before she could speak. She sat down opposite her father and leaned forward, looking into his eyes. "Do not tell anyone," she said. "Father, I wish you had spoken to me before that meeting."

Imrahil blew out his breath. "Do not tell me that you now wish to marry the man."

Lothíriel forced a smile. "I have to, Father."

He looked at her disbelievingly, his hands now on the table, palms up. "Why, Lothi?" he asked. "Weddings have been called off later than this before."

Lothíriel shook her head. "I want to marry him."

"Will you be happy with him?"

The question echoed in the room and resonated within her. It was the same question that she had been asking herself for the past six months.

She looked down at the table, tracing the edges of the White Mountains, down the Great River, to the Bay of Belfalas with her fingers. Without thinking, she reached across and held her father's hand in her own. It was a gesture that they were both surprised by; Imrahil had never been a tender man, and he was even aloof to his own children. But this time, Lothíriel felt it was right. For once in her life, she realized, she needed to stop thinking about herself.

"I do not know," she said truthfully. "But I have to try. I must speak with Éomer and see what happens."

Her father did not speak for a moment. Then, "I told you once before that you would be able to choose your husband. I am sorry for lying to you."

Lothíriel smiled again. "Everything will be alright, Father."

Imrahil looked across the table at his daughter. She was twenty-two now, not much older than his wife when he had first wed her. He had never known what to do with her. With his sons, he had no doubts about his role in their lives. He was to show them how to hold their heads high in court, how to ride, how to fight. But with a girl…

It was as if women existed in their own mysterious worlds, and they only emerged once in a while to join the world of men. His wife had always taken care of Lothíriel, and when she had died, he had thought he had nothing in common with his youngest child.

And now, in a matter of a few years, she was an adult; today of all days, he could no longer lie to himself that she was still a child, with her looking at him across the table, reassuring him about her future.

"I love you, and I want you to be happy."

Lothíriel smiled at this, a genuine one this time that lit up her face. It was a smile that reminded him too much of his wife, and it made his heart ache. "I love you too, Father." She got up, kissed him on the cheek, and walked toward the door.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you once again for all the wonderful reviews! I don't know what I would do without all your support, and I love reading all of your opinions about Lothíriel and Éomer, as well as the other characters. Also, I look forward to hearing about your thoughts on the letter and our heroine's response to it! _

_Don't worry, it's not long now before the final confrontation. :) _

_One thing: Éomer's eyes are brown. Éowyn's eyes are grey. I believe I have caught all my mistakes regarding this subject, but please let me know if you find any discrepancies. This is what happens you leave a story for too long... you forget your initial visualization of the characters... _


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 **

**Trade Lines **

* * *

It was only after she left her father's room that Lothíriel realized she had no idea where to find the king of the Riddermark. She found herself wandering the halls of Meduseld once more, considering what she should say and how she should approach the man. Slowly, the words began to come, and she rehearsed, in her mind, a lengthy speech in which she would explain everything.

It was not long before she found herself at her own chamber doors once more.

She stood there for a moment, wondering what she should do, for it was very possible that Éomer had already gone to make the news of the wedding public. But where would he be? The stables? The great hall?

_His chambers_.

That was the most likely location, she decided, and she would look in the other places in turn if she could not find him there.

With that thought, she strode down the hall, toward the place where she has just been with Éowyn. The king's chambers really were close to hers; she only counted three full tapestries before she was at his door. There, she awkwardly raised a hand and knocked.

Lothíriel waited a full minute, praying that Éomer was in his chambers so she could quickly get the speech she had prepared over with, and yet, at the same time, she wished that he was not there so that she did not have to confront him.

Just when she was about to turn and try the stables, however, the doorknob turned on the other side and the door opened, startling her.

Éomer stood there, dressed in riding gear, with a small sack in one hand. He was as handsome as ever, his blonde hair knotted at the back so as not to get in his way. His brown eyes were piercing as they looked upon her, and he brought one hand up to scratch the bottom of his chin, which sported a few days growth of stubble.

He seemed just as surprised as she was to find her standing there.

The two stared at one another, unable to find words to greet each other after their last meeting in the king's council room. Finally, Lothíriel, forgetting all her manners, managed, "Éomer."

The sound of his name seemed to shake the man from his shock, and immediately, his face turned to stone. The king bowed low, though Lothíriel could not help thinking that there was a certain irony in his movements, as if he were going through the motions but held no actual respect for her. "My lady Lothíriel."

Even with those thoughts in her mind, she gathered her courage. "I need to speak to you with regards to what happened today," she said, repeating the words she had rehearsed.

Éomer had straightened and gave her a piercing glare. "What could you possibly say?" he snarled before composing himself again. He closed his eyes, bringing one hand to his temples, before looking at her again, as if willing himself to be civil. "My apologies. What would you say to me, my lady?"

His cold, formal manner was exactly the opposite of what Lothíriel wanted from him. She missed the warm, charming man that had been in her chambers the night before. She remembered his kiss, his hand in her hair, and she swallowed hard.

"I do not think it would be right to speak here," she said. "If I may suggest we go some place more private, like my chambers."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Your chambers? That seems hardly appropriate, seeing that we are no longer betrothed."

The acid with which he said those words made Lothíriel's mouth dry. "Please," she said, but could find no more words.

Éomer looked at the figure in front of him. She was small, even for a woman, and yet, she had caused him more pain than even the greatest Orc. He did not know whether to trust her or run from her. How could someone who had been so warm in her letters be so cold to him in life?

But he found he could deny her nothing.

"Alright," he assented, putting the sack he was holding on the floor of his chambers and motioning for her to lead them.

It is said that time is relative, for when one is waiting for something good, time seems to drag on forever, but when one is dreading something, time flies. Such was time for Lothíriel, who found herself in her chamber, the door closed and Éomer looking at her expectantly.

But before she could open her mouth, the man had noticed something behind her. "What is that?"

She turned to follow his gaze and realized what he was looking at the same moment he did. _You idiot, Lothíriel! _

He was faster than she, as they both dove toward her bed, where she had left the pile of letters that Éowyn had found in Éomer's chambers. He came up with them, his fist balling up most of the parchment as he scanned the pages.

"What is the meaning of this?" he cried, glaring down at her, his breath coming short from the exertion. "How did you get this?"

Lothíriel jumped to her feet, her breath, too, coming in gasps. "I can explain!" she said, willing herself not to wrestle the letters away from the man, as he was now holding them so tightly, she was afraid they would rip.

"Then explain!" he shouted, the paper shaking in his hands.

She stared up at him, trying to speak. This was not how she had planned to confront the king at all, and she found that the speech she had prepared had flown out of her mind.

"I am waiting to hear how you were able to get into my chambers and find my private stack of letters," Éomer said, his jaw twitching. His teeth were clenched, his nostrils were flared, and one of his hands was balled into a fist. Anger rolled off of him, and Lothíriel was afraid that he might strike her.

"Éowyn gave them to me," she said finally, her voice stronger than she realized.

The man let out an oath. "You read them?"

"I read one," Lothíriel said truthfully.

Éomer swore again. Then, he laughed, a cold, bitter laugh that seemed to bounce off the walls. The woman stood, rooted to the ground, unable to process what was happening. "You have really fooled me," he said, still laughing. "I believed you were the person in your letters. But here you are, more poisonous than any woman I have ever met."

Lothíriel could feel her own anger rising. "Listen to me, Éomer. I can explain everything."

But the man ignored her. "In the past day, you have managed to break my heart, stop a wedding, and now I find this?"

She held her breath to try and keep her voice from rising, but she found she could not. "Stop it! Listen to me! I am trying to tell you what happened!"

But Éomer was wild and could not stop. "Tell me, did your father suggest this marriage because no man would have you in Dol Amroth?"

She struck him across the cheek.

A moment of silence followed where they both tried to understand what had just happened. Lothíriel had not realized she had been walking toward Éomer during his craze or that she had even raised a hand until the sound of the slap woke her into realization.

"I am sorry, but will you listen to me!" she found herself saying, a sob rising in her throat. She suppressed it, willing herself not to cry at this moment. "Everything that has happened in the past six months has been because the men around me will not listen. My father pushed for the wedding despite what I had to say, and my brother and father called off the wedding today without telling me first. The only time when I found that a man had actually been interested in what I had to say was through the letter you never sent."

Éomer said nothing, stunned into silence at her outburst.

"Now, you will listen to me and hear what happened?" she asked.

Wordlessly, the man nodded.

"Sit down," she commanded. "This will take some time."

Obediently, Éomer sat on the bed, his hand still clutching the letters before him.

"It is true that I did not want to marry you when I arrived at Edoras," she said, pacing before the bed. "How could I? All I had received were the half-page notes you sent me. You may have fallen in love with me through my letters, but I had nothing of you, Éomer. I did not even know who you were when I first stepped foot into Meduseld.

"Everything I put down in my letters was true. I want to be a healer. I tried to learn Rohirrim. I want to be more involved in the actual ruling of a land, not just sitting prettily for the crowds," she continued. "Please believe that."

She stopped pacing and took a breath. "I told my brother Erchirion of my doubts, and because he was concerned for me, he told my father. Then, because my father knew that I had not wanted to marry you at first, he made an executive decision to tell you to stop the wedding. But he never asked me.

"When you all left the council room, I stayed behind and spoke with Éowyn. She told me that you had been writing letters – real letters, that is—to me, and was surprised when I said that I had only received the short notes. She realized that for some reason, you never sent your real letters, and she took me to your chambers. She found the letters and gave them to me."

She paused for a moment, the shame of looking through someone's private material coming back to her. "I am sorry for intruding into your chamber. I know I should not have, but once I heard that you had never sent your letters, my interest overcame my propriety. I read one of them and left the rest here."

She stopped then, facing the man, who was nearly as tall as she was even when sitting down.

"And?" he prompted. The wildness in his eyes was gone, leaving only his normal, tranquil expression. He seemed tired, weary from the occurrences of the last few days.

"And I wish you had sent them," she said quietly. "I wish you had let me get to know you during these six months. You see, my impression of you was this cold, hard man who only knew battle and horses, and when I arrived, you were completely different. I was confused." She glanced down at the parchment in his hands. "Will you not let me get to know you now?"

Éomer did not hand over the pages so easily, but sat for a moment, thinking of all the information that she had just given him. "It seems that you have been learning boldness from my sister," he said at last.

Lothíriel took in a deep breath and let it out. "I think it is time I took a page out of your sister's book," she said. "Too long have I been hiding in the shadows and letting men run my life."

Éomer gave a short laugh at that. "You even sound like her."

"Éomer," she said, remembering the other reason she had wanted to speak to him. "I know about Rohan's plight, and I know why you wished to marry me at first." The man stiffened at that, clutching the parchment closer to him, as if that would take away Lothíriel's knowledge of what he had written. "I want to help Rohan."

The man furrowed his brow, looking into her eyes, as if searching for an answer there. "Why would you want to do that?"

She looked down at her feet. How could she explain what she had felt when touring the halls and the stables with the young captain of the Mark?

"I walked through Meduseld and looked upon Edoras with Éothain," she answered. She gave a small laugh, remembering her encounter with Firefoot. "I also met your horse."

Éomer watched as her eyes glittered as she explained her day in the stables, in the hall, and standing above the markets. She did not seem to notice, but her cheeks had begun to flush, and a small smile was playing on her lips as Lothíriel spoke about the placement of Meduseld among the people and the personality of his horse. Before she finished speaking, he already knew the answer to his own question.

"It is a strange thing to say after spending only one day here," she said. "But I love this city. I love the history and the culture and the horses. I want to be a part of it." She looked at him again. "I want to help you save it, if it comes to that."

The look in Éomer's brown eyes was sad when she said this. "So you wish to marry me so you can use your dowry to help Rohan," he said flatly.

Lothíriel shook her head.

"Éomer," she said slowly, walking toward the man until she was almost touching his knees. "I cared for the man that I met in that letter. If we are to marry, you must promise me that you will tell me what you are thinking. You cannot expect me to just know."

The man looked up at that. "May I speak?"

Lothíriel nodded, but was surprised at the request until she realized that she had been speaking for the past stripe of a candle at least. Éomer had been sitting on the bed, patiently listening to everything she had to say. It was one of the first times a man had completely devoted his attention to her words and considered them seriously.

Any doubts she had about the king were beginning to melt away.

"I want to apologize first, for the short letters," he said. "You are right. All of this could possibly have been avoided had I just let you know what I was thinking and feeling at the time. I promise that from now on, I will be completely honest with you."

His expression, however, became stern. "If you ever again wish for anything of mine," he began, "ask me. Do not venture into my chambers and steal my things."

Lothíriel nodded. "I am sorry. This is not a common practice of mine. It will not happen again."

At this, he pushed the pieces of parchment that he was holding forward to her. "I want you to read these." He blushed then. "And for Bema's sake, burn them after!"

She stared down at the letters once, then set them aside on the bed.

"No," she said. "I do not want to get to know you through the letters now that I am here. I want you to _show_ me who you are." She hesitated, then reached forward, taking his hands in hers. She was standing so close to him now that their knees did touch.

His brown eyes met hers, questioning. "Do you still wish for the marriage to take place in two days?"

She let out a breath. It was refreshing to be asked what she wanted in terms of this marriage for a change, and she was grateful for Éomer's attention. "No," she answered. "I think it is too soon." The man looked crestfallen, but she continued. "I am not calling off the marriage. Let us say that we are betrothed, but let us delay the wedding so that we can learn more about each other."

Éomer's expression did not change. "And if we do not agree to each other?"

Lothíriel sighed. "Then it is not too late to call it off then, is it?"

The man continued to stare at her. "How long do you wish to delay?"

Lothíriel thought for a moment, and the answer came. "Why not six months? That seemed to be enough time for you to come to know me through my letters," she said, smiling. "Will you not allow me the same amount of time to get to know you?"

"Of course," the man answered, but his tone did not change.

She searched his face, but could find no reason for him to still be unhappy. Did he deem that too long a time before the marriage? "I know that it does make things a bit difficult," she said hastily. "King Elessar and my father shall have to return to Gondor, but all the preparations are already made, and when the time does come, there will be much less planning."

Éomer only looked down at their joined hands.

She bit her lip. "You promised to be honest with me," she prompted.

The man looked up at her and sighed. "Aye, you are right," he said, and closed his eyes, as if gathering himself. "It is not that I am not happy that you still wish to marry me," he began. "But in six months, it will be September. That is too close to winter to buy an adequate amount of supplies for my people should their harvest fail."

_Of course._

When they were married would determine when her dowry would be delivered to Rohan, and the earlier that occurred, the better. It would not do to beg her father for the money in advance, and she suspected Éomer would not accept even if her father agreed.

"I do not mean to rush the wedding before you are ready," Éomer said hastily. "But we are to be honest with one another."

She nodded at this. "Yes, thank you for telling me," she said, her heart sinking.

"This only emphasizes that Rohan must find a way to be self-sufficient," the man said to her, trying to raise her hopes. "We will trade more wool with Gondor. I hear that Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth are ever in need of it, for it is difficult to raise sheep so close to the mountains and the sea."

Lothíriel tried to smile. "That is true."

Éomer closed his eyes, thinking. "If we double our trade this year, we can get enough wheat from Dol Amroth to sustain us for at least this winter. But…" he hesitated at this.

"But what?" she asked.

"But the going is slow," he said. "We simply cannot speed up the trade because the route is treacherous."

"Oh." She could not keep the sadness from her voice, and to her surprise, Éomer cupped her cheek with his hand, brushing away a tear there that had escaped. His hand was warm, and the tender gesture went to her heart.

"Lothíriel, we will try," he said earnestly. "I can increase the amount of horses we send through the mountains to speed the journey. Everything will be alright."

The woman started at this, the wheels of her mind turning. "You send your wool through the White Mountains?" Éomer, too, was startled, for she withdrew her hands and stepped away from him.

"Aye. What of it?"

"Wait here," she commanded, stepping to the desk on the opposite side of the room.

The man stood then, peering at her back as she rummaged the drawers, throwing paper to the floor with disregard. "What are you doing?"

The images of the White Mountains, the Great River, and the Bay of Belfalas that had been on her father's desk flashed across her mind, and Lothíriel continued to search through the desk. "I have map in here somewhere!" she said impatiently.

Finally, she found the piece of parchment and spread it out across the desk, gesturing for Éomer to join her. He did, looking over her shoulder at where she was pointing. Despite her concentration, Lothíriel realized that the man was now towering over her small frame, his body so close to hers that their arms touched.

"Does Rohan have ships?" she asked, trying to keep her concentration.

She looked up to see Éomer furrow his brows. "A few small ones that we use now and then to cross the Entwash or sail down it, but none that can rival those of Dol Amroth," he answered. "Why?"

"Are they manned by men who know the waters well?" she asked.

The man looked at her in confusion. "I would assume so, but I know not for certain."

"Look here," she said, pointing to the path of the Great River, revealing her idea. She had noticed the winding of the Anduin when she had been speaking with her father, tracing her fingers down the map that he had had on his table.

"If you change the trade routes to go by water instead of land, it will be much quicker, cutting the time by half, if I estimate based on trade in Gondor," she said excitedly. "Take the ships that you have and sail the wool through the Entwash to the Anduin. You can then trade to Minas Tirith or continue to sail down to the Bay of Belfalas, to the ports of Dol Amroth. Your first shipment may be small, but once we open that route, my father will also begin to send ships up the river and you can borrow them to send wool down again."

The king stared down at the map, and Lothíriel watched as the light of realization came into his eyes. He was silent for a moment, taking in the information. "We will have to build a real port, of course," he said slowly. "Where, we will still have to determine."

He turned to the woman then, his eyes bright. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement, and she looked positively dazzling in the sunlight that was coming through her windows. Her dark hair was gleaming, and the smile she wore was one he never wanted to disappear. "This could work, and not just for wool," he said. "We can trade horses and lumber in return for grain."

"Yes!" she cried, remembering the figures from her own city when she had ruled it in her father's absence. "Dol Amroth has need for both!"

Éomer was grinning now. "This also solves the problem for the men and women who have been displaced, who have had their lands destroyed and cannot establish themselves again as farmers. They can have work building a port and more ships," he said. "Lothíriel, you are a genius!"

The smile that she gave him was too much for him to resist. He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her furiously.

Lothíriel was lost in a wave of emotion, for his kiss swept her off of her feet into a far away place that she did not even know existed. His lips were warm and soft, and his hands around her waist held her so tightly she was afraid she would fall without them. She did not know how she would ever get used to these kisses, and she leaned into him, kissing him back with an intensity of her own.

Just as suddenly as the kiss was begun, it was ended, for Éomer pulled back, realizing what he had done, and the two stood slightly apart, an awkward, shy silence coming between them.

"I am sorry," the man stammered. "I was… overwhelmed."

The princess laughed at the sheepish look on the man's face. "It is alright," she said, looking at her feet. "We are, after all, betrothed."

At this, Éomer smiled, a genuine one that made Lothíriel grin back at him. "It is a wonder no one has thought of this before," he said, gesturing at the map. "I am in your debt, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

"I shall remember that," she jested, feeling positively giddy. "Be prepared, Éomer Éadig, for I do not forget favors that are owed to me. Shall I go tell my father of our plan to increase trade between our countries?"

"No," the man said, putting out his arm and staying her. "That can wait. Edoras was not built in a day. Let us focus on something else."

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Getting to know each other," came the answer. "Come. You shall get to know me best when I am riding."

* * *

_A/N: So, is all mended? Do Éomer and Lothíriel go riding off happily into the sunset? Will Rohan simply survive the winter and flourish under the rule of these two? _

_Nay, dear reader! You are forgetting a certain clueless captain of the Mark, who is still hopelessly in the throes of unrequited love. The story is not ended until we tie up that little tidbit as well. Plus, I love some good fluff, which is much needed after all this drama. So, watch out for Chapter 14 of A Dutiful Daughter, coming very, very soon! _

_Once again, please review! You know how much I love your feedback. _


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